


A Slow Awakening

by gamerfic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Adventure, Angst, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Dalish Elves, Elves, Fen'Harel Is a Cocky Asshole, Gen, Identity Issues, Minor canon divergence, Original Character Death(s), Philosophy, Possession, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Solas Being Solas, Solas Fails Repeatedly at Life, The Fade, Wilderness Survival, just all kinds of death, non-permanent death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 87,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamerfic/pseuds/gamerfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fen'Harel unexpectedly awakens into the broken world that his long-ago actions had wrought, he quickly discovers that his choices have created a reality that is nothing like the future he once dreamed of. Alone, reviled, weakened, and cut off from the source of his magic, Fen'Harel becomes the apostate mage Solas in order to hide from his many enemies while he waits for his plans to come to fruition. With no other way to survive the treacherous wilderness of the Frostback Mountains, Solas reluctantly allies himself with a group of elven misfits fighting to preserve the last remnants of their Dalish clan in the wake of tragedy and betrayal. But even if these outcasts can defeat the powerful demon that relentlessly stalks them, the still-echoing consequences of Fen'Harel's and Solas's decisions may yet prove deadly for them all.</p><p>(A tale of how Solas came to join the Inquisition. Complete as of 4 July 2016.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story derives its Mature rating from graphic violence, dark themes, and general bleakness. It will not contain explicit sexual content.
> 
> In addition to the topics encompassed by the archive warnings already listed, any chapter of this story may contain descriptions of serious injuries, children in peril, depictions of animals being hunted and killed for food, fantastic racism (some of it espoused by Solas in keeping with his canonical viewpoints), the Dalish being kind of terrible, a view of Solas and his goals that is critical at best, and Solas/Fen'Harel being a douchebag to a wide variety of people who may or may not have deserved his scorn. This is not necessarily an exhaustive list of warnings, and it may be updated with additional content notes upon request and/or as the need arises.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel experiences a rude awakening.

Fen'Harel woke from his millennia of slumber on a cold clear day in the month of Cloudreach after an elf in tattered clothing plunged through the ceiling of the chamber in which he had been dreaming and died convulsing on the mosaic tile floor. He opened his eyes, blinked away the fog left behind by his boundless ages of sleep, and stared up into the vaulted ceiling high above him, uncertain at first of what had happened. The unlucky elf must have somehow been walking on the roof of the temple and fallen when a part of it had collapsed under his weight. Beyond the opening, Fen'Harel could see a bright and cloudless sky, a ragged patch of blue left behind in the place where fate had torn away a piece of plaster and stone from his living tomb. Fat flakes of snow caught up from the surrounding landscape by the steady, brisk breeze drifted lazily downward to land on the dusty floor, on the elf's swiftly cooling body, on Fen'Harel's own skin. He heard only faint birdsong from the forest that surrounded the temple and the rasp of his own heavy breathing. Something was terribly wrong.

Without getting up, Fen'Harel rolled his head to one side, craning his neck as far as he could to look at the spot on the floor where the elf had fallen. The elf must have been too startled by the sudden collapse of the ground beneath his feet to use magic to slow his descent. He had landed badly, head-first at the bottom of a thirty-foot drop. Now he lay with his neck bent at an unnatural angle and his face tilted upward toward Fen'Harel's bed, wearing a final expression of shock and fright. A pool of thick blood was gradually spreading out beneath him, oozing from a crack in his forehead. Fen'Harel grimaced in disgust. What had the People come to in his absence, that a simple spell to break a fall should now be beyond any one of them?

But when he reached for his magic to channel warmth and vitality back into his long-immobile limbs, he began to understand. What had once been a vast river of power that gushed forth to be shaped by his will at the slightest urging from his imagination was now choked off and dammed up behind the Veil. It took patience and finesse and more than a little coaxing to pull it from one realm into the next in the first place. Even then, what he grabbed hold of was a trickle at best, nothing at all like the torrents of magic he had once commanded. Perhaps it was not so shameful for a single elf, distracted and taken by surprise, to fail to access such elusive energy in a crisis. And most importantly of all, no matter his shortcomings, he was an elf. He, and presumably his kind, had not been wiped from existence by the madness of the Evanuris. The idea that anything of the People had survived at all brought him more hope than he could remember feeling in all the many years of his so-called rebellion.

Cautiously, experimentally, Fen'Harel pulled himself up into a seated position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room wheeled wildly around him, and he closed his eyes against the dizziness he had forgotten he would feel. By the time he felt confident enough in his balance to open them again, the elf's corpse had begun to accumulate a light coating of snowflakes that no longer melted as soon as they settled on his motionless form. Water dripped from somewhere above and echoed in the silent space. Its droplets made ripples in the small puddle slowly forming near the dead elf's sprawled-out legs. Despite the chill of this chamber, spring was coming to the world beyond it, whether Fen'Harel wanted it to or not.

The longer he spent in contemplation of the silent temple, the more troubled he became. Where were his attendants, the Elvhen sworn to his cause who had vowed to watch over his body where it lay in repose, to guide the People in the world that the Veil had reshaped, to carry on the work of his revolution in his absence? He had always known that immortality was no guarantee of eternal loyalty, that his allies would come and go and pass on their duties to their successors, that he would almost certainly be greeted by unfamiliar faces when he finally chose to leave _uthenera_. Still, to awaken in total solitude was disconcerting. Somebody should have come to his chamber by now, summoned by the noise of the elf's fall. Yet the space remained empty except for himself and the corpse. The heavy double doors remained closed, the veilfire torches unlit, the intricate spellwork that surrounded him undisturbed but also clearly unmaintained. What had become of the allies who should have awaited him?

He rose to his feet and walked haltingly and unsteadily across the chamber to the door, oddly grateful that no one else was present to witness the pathetic spectacle of the Dread Wolf stumbling and staggering across a twenty-foot expanse of floor as he clumsily remembered the unnecessarily complicated process of convincing his feet to move through physical space in deference to the commands of his mind. The doors sprung open at the wave of his hand, revealing a lightless and cobwebbed corridor beyond. He kindled a ball of soft yellow flame in his outstretched palm to illuminate his path and shuffled out into the temple past flaking frescoes and crumbling statues, searching for answers. He did not call out for his vanished allies. He was not ready to appear so desperate yet, not even to himself.

He should not have worried about being overheard. Although the powerful enchantments that had hidden and protected him for so many generations still stood as strongly as they had on the day that he and his comrades had erected them, the temple itself was in ruins. The rooms in which his allies would have lived and studied were musty and deserted, their air stale with their lengthy vacancy. In others, the walls and ceilings had collapsed long ago into piles of rubble. When he reached what had once been the main entrance, he found it completely blocked by rocks and dirt from some bygone landslide that had buried the structure almost completely. There were no other Elvhen present, nor even their remains. It was as if all of them had simply abandoned the temple one day and sealed up the wards behind them, leaving him to dream eternally alone amidst the wreckage of whatever had gone wrong.

As he contemplated the cave-in at the entrance he felt an unsettling gnawing deep in his belly, and realized with a start that he was hungry. It was strange to need to remember the meaning of that sensation after so many years spent deep in _uthenera_ , drawing sustenance from the essence of the Fade itself. He returned with some haste to his chamber, having already thankfully rediscovered the rudiments of walking for the most part, and knelt down next to the corpse on the cold, hard floor. The dead elf had been wearing a backpack when he fell, and its contents had partially spewed out across the cracked tiles. Among them he found various implements that must have been meant to give aid in wilderness survival to someone not fully confident in his own magic. It concerned him to think that a grown man should have need of such things to begin with. Was the Veil really so stifling? Had the People really fallen so far?

He teased the pack off from around the elf's stiffening arms and found the food inside that he had hoped for - some strips of cured meat, dried-out slices from an apple, a chunk of hard stale bread seasoned with spices he couldn't identify, a half-full waterskin to wash it all down. Eating was as unfamiliar to his confused body as walking had been. The first few bites, too rapidly swallowed, churned and rumbled in his long-empty stomach. Despite his hunger, he forced himself to consume the rest of the food as slowly as he could stand to. As he ate, he stared at the body and wondered what the spirit that had until recently inhabited it had been running from. The elf's footwraps were soaked with drying blood from innumerable fresh cuts, the muscles of his legs clenched with the terror of flight. Fen'Harel was grateful that whoever or whatever had pursued this pathetic, frightened man had not been able to follow him into the chamber that had become his eternal resting place.

There was no point in asking himself why this anonymous elf's unexpected appearance had been the thing to finally wake him. In truth, he had known for more years than he cared to admit that something had gone gravely wrong with the transformed reality he had left behind. He did not know exactly when the other beings he encountered in the Fade had first become so alien to him, their dreams and their concerns so difficult to comprehend, their nightmares so vile and so horrifying. He only knew that the Elvhen alone no longer held sway in the waking world, and that the beings who had joined them on the other side of the Veil were not going away anytime soon. He had tried to ignore the existence of these strange new souls, losing himself in distant dreams and memories of times gone by, or lazily passing the eons in the company of the same unchanging spirits as always. But the longer he slept, the harder it became to remain completely unaware of the constant, dramatic changes happening on the other side of the Veil. Little by little he had felt himself drawing nearer to the borders of wakefulness, more desperate than he should have been to see at last for himself what his actions had created.

Fen'Harel looked back at the bed in which he had been sleeping, at its pure white linens and the dent his heavy head had left in the pillow. He was seized for a moment by an intense urge to simply lie back down and close his eyes until he returned to _uthenera_. None of his allies would have faulted him for doing so, for choosing to explore the outermost reaches of every corner of the Fade instead of trying to make his way in the confused and confusing world he had wrought. But it was too late for him to go back to sleep now. In truth, even the Fade had begun to grow tiresome to him lately, its spirits too predictable, its dreams too repetitive. He had no context to help him to understand the worries and concerns of the new dreamers whose minds he so frequently brushed against, and he would never have it without seeing the place from which they came. Curiosity had grabbed hold of him from the instant he had opened his eyes. He had to know the truth now, had to see the outcome of his decisions for himself, even if the process of gaining the information would prove as painful as he suspected it might be. He had not earned his power or his reputation by choosing to pretend that reality was something other than what it was, and he was not about to change that now. Better to know the facts and to choose one's direction based upon them than to continue on in deliberate ignorance, no matter how comforting such a state might be.

With his decision already made, he got up from the ground. He would go out into the world he had made and see what had become of it in his absence. He would find the answers he needed concerning the state of his temple and the disappearance of his allies. He would fill his mind with new knowledge to illuminate new avenues of inquiry and inspire new dreams. And if it was as bad as he feared, if existing in a place where his Veil divided all things in two and and flesh and spirit were no longer united - well, his chamber would be waiting for him, as would the endless sleep and all-consuming dreams that he knew he could slip back into at any time.

The first task would be to ensure the continued concealment and security of his chamber, so that he would have a safe place to retreat to if need be. Fen'Harel looked up at the hole in the ceiling and, with delicate motions of his hands and the deft weaving of his magic, began to cover it anew. Fallen masonry flew back into place and knit itself together. He sensed the flaw in the stone, formed by centuries of persistent erosion, that had weakened the ceiling just enough to send the hapless elf tumbling into the buried temple. He reinforced and buttressed it so the next person to tread there would pass over it without incident, never the wiser about everything hidden beneath. Next came a thick layer of ice and dirt, pulled into this world from the Fade, to conceal the rebuilt roof even more thoroughly. His repairs had closed off the only source of sunlight in the room and blanketed everything with impenetrable blackness. With a desultory wave he lit the veilfire torches on the walls to fill the room with soft green light. He could have seen perfectly well without it, but he was weak enough not to want to be alone in the dark with the corpse and the silence and the growing understanding that he was about to learn things he would rather not have to know.

A final blast of ice magic covered the ceiling in spindly lines of thick frost and sealed the chamber once more. In his absence, the temple and all of its contents would remain as frozen as they had been before he woke. He turned back to the low platform on which he had slept for centuries and saw his orb just where he had left it, on its pedestal at the head of the bed. Gently, almost nervously, he picked it up. When he entered _uthenera_ it had been a worn-out, useless thing, its magic almost entirely expended by the massive spell that had erected the Veil. Now it spat and crackled beneath his fingertips with barely contained energy. It had grown in power as he slept, absorbing the substance of the ancient dreams through which he had wandered, transforming them back into the same raw potential from which they had sprung and storing all of it inside the orb to await his command. He wondered what he would do with it this time.

On one wall of the chamber there stood a disused _eluvian_ , its burnished surface dull and inert. Fen'Harel raised his palm to it and whispered the words of command that he had laid upon it centuries before. A brilliant blue glow burst forth, opening a path to wherever he might choose to go next. Beneath the shimmering light he briefly glimpsed his own reflection and was surprised by his own face and body. He had nearly forgotten his own appearance during his time in _uthenera_ \- his tan skin, his thick ropes of dark hair with bones and charms and feathers woven into them, his finely tailored and ornately embroidered robes of silk and leather and fur. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to having to be embodied like this once again. Regardless, he would have to live as the People of this world lived for as long as it took him to figure out why he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of hideous wrongness, the shadow that had followed him from the moment he woke. He took a final glance back at the chamber and then stepped through the _eluvian_ , focusing all of his will upon his goal. The mirror's hidden pathways snapped into alignment and guided him northeast toward Arlathan, bearing him back to the place where it all began.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel catches up on everything he missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! Thanks for taking a chance on this story. Most of it was completed during NaNoWriMo 2015 and is now under revision, so unless life gets really weird I shouldn't have a problem updating this once a week or more. I love and welcome feedback and commentary of all kinds, so please feel free to leave comments or to PM me through [my Dreamwidth account](http://gamerfic.dreamwidth.org). Hope you enjoy!

Fen'Harel swept across the land that the descendents of the People had come to know as Thedas. (He would never again call them the People after everything he saw.) The journey took longer than he would have liked. The _eluvian_ network that had once connected every corner of the world, no matter how distant, was a shadow of its former self. Many of its mirrors had been locked away behind enchantments he had neither the time nor the inclination to penetrate, and others had been destroyed utterly. Soon he was forced to abandon them, making a mental note to revisit this matter later if he chose not to return to _uthenera_.

For the time being, he resorted to different methods of travel. First, he draped himself in magic to make himself seem unworthy of notice to the simple minds of the beings that surrounded him. Then he walked alongside them on the dirt paths of their villages and the broad cobblestone streets of what they thought were mighty cities, rode unseen in their wagons, stowed away in plain sight on the decks of their ships. He quickly skimmed the rudiments of their crude, simplistic trade language from the surface of their thoughts. This allowed him to eavesdrop on their conversations, familiarizing himself with the petty concerns of their lives and what little they knew of the larger world they inhabited. If nothing else, hearing them give voice to their countless small worries told him where to look next. 

When Fen'Harel tired of the glacial pace that these beings inexplicably seemed to regard as the normal speed of travel, he made himself invisible instead of just uninteresting and then pulled himself through the Fade. He brought the place where he stood in contact with another, like folding the corners of a blanket together, over and over, until he had seen everything worth seeing in Thedas. Whenever he sensed that he had reached a particularly interesting location, he found a safe and secluded spot to erect wards and to slip back into the Fade, to speak with the spirits who lived there and to borrow the dreams that had been preserved, until he had experienced many sides of every story. Soon he began to comprehend everything that had happened during the many millennia of history he had missed.

Fen'Harel traveled. He watched, and he dreamed, and he listened. And he learned.

The first discovery to surprise him was the existence of people who were not the People - not the Elvhen, nor even the dreadfully stunted progeny they had left behind. Most common were the humans, an inexplicably hardy amalgamation of various barbarian tribes who had come to outnumber the other races through a heady combination of exponential breeding, periodic violent purges of their enemies, and sheer stubbornness. Some humans maintained a vague and imperfect connection to the Fade, which the ignorant majority took as an excuse to wall them up behind fortifications, to tell them their abilities would make them into a magnet for demons if they stepped out of line, and later to kill them without hesitation under the pretext of their own self-fulfilling prophecies. It was repulsive, yet predictable.

The dwarven peoples he recalled from the time of Arlathan had survived in some form. However, their empires had also been toppled, their connection to the Titans of old all but forgotten, their spirits cut off from the Fade entirely. Worse yet, they seemed to like it that way. He knew there was nothing he could do to change their fate now, and so he chose to pay them no mind. Stranger than all of the others were the qunari, a race of extremes who rarely found any middle ground between mindless bloodthirst and total repression. All of these races lived and died in the span of an eyeblink, even in the rare event that their natural lifespans were not cut short by war or accidents or disease. How could they abide such a limited existence? Was it only because none of them truly knew what they were missing? He knew he stood little chance of understanding these mysteries without vast and probably futile effort, and so for now he decided not to try.

And the elves...They should have been immortal, liberated from the tyranny of the Evanuris, free to spend their eternal lives building all the wonders they could imagine and ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity. This clearly had not happened. Fen'Harel did not want to jump to an intemperate conclusion about the remnants of the People even as he came to fear the worst. He ranged all over the continents, looking for something, anything that would put to rest the sickening fear that had been growing in him ever since he had first seen the sorry state of the _eluvian_ network.

It was all too plain to him that Elvhenan had fallen long ago. The forest from which Arlathan had once risen in all its unearthly, impossible glory was now just that: a forest, devoid of any evidence of the marvelous floating city that used to anchor there. Small bands of half-feral elves crept about amidst the gnarled trees, eking out their meager subsistence from the land and struggling against both the indifference of nature and the aggression of their human neighbors. To the west, the Tevinter Imperium stole anything useful they could find from elven culture, then claimed the elves' resulting lack of sophistication as evidence that they deserved to stay enslaved. To the east, Antiva and Rivain cultivated only the plausible deniability of benign indifference. None of them were worth another second of his time.

Upheaval characterized the southern nations. Orlais was a cauldron of slow-simmering tensions, filled with an incipient civil war about to boil over and scald anyone and anything in its path. It seemed likely that the modern elves would have some part to play there, however small. Fen'Harel supposed that he should have taken more interest in the Orlesian city elves' impatience with their oppression and with the role they stood to play in the inevitable conflict, but in the end he could not bring himself to care. Nothing they could do would eliminate the real sources of harm anyway.

Ferelden had been deeply wounded by the recent Blight in ways that might never fully heal. He dreamed of the battle at Ostagar, of the supposed heroic deeds of the Grey Wardens and their allies, of the many conflicting stories about the Hero of Ferelden who had sacrificed her life to slay the Archdemon. He wondered if the Fereldans would think of it all any differently if they knew what really caused Blights or what Urthemiel had really been. He doubted it. The Hero of Ferelden had been an elf from the self-styled Dalish tribes, yet her death had done nothing to erase the human bias against elves for all that she had saved their nation. If, after that, they still would not believe that elves deserved the same freedoms as the human majority, it was likely they would go to any lengths to preserve their self-deception. The people of this age were united in very little, but all of them seemed to prefer comforting stories that reinforced the things they already believed over the cold sharp blade of the truth.

The discovery that the elves, the descendents of the People for whom he had sacrificed so much, were by no means exempt from such ignorance was more difficult for Fen'Harel to accept than any of the other harsh realizations he had faced. The People had not only lost their way; they had lost their immortality, and most of them had lost their magic besides. At first he did not understand how it was possible for elves to age and die and suffer diseases like the other races, for elven mages to be as rare and as misunderstood as human hedge-wizards or qunari saarebas. He spent a frankly ridiculous amount of time reaching into the minds of Orlesian scholars in search of answers, so desperate for insight that he was willing to overlook their foolish theories and their limited perspectives for the sake of learning anything at all about how this had come to pass. Most of them, and many of the elves besides, believed that contact with humans had somehow sapped the vitality of the Elvhen and rendered them as mortal and mundane as anything else. It was not a bad theory, but the more he considered it, the more he began to grasp that something even larger and more horrifying had been to blame.

The destruction of Arlathan and the loss of Halamshiral, the never-ending litany of broken promises and violated treaties, had been altogether too much for the elves to bear. Those who had tried to integrate themselves into the humans' cities had found themselves confined to filthy, decrepit alienages, subjugated by the human rulers' will, used and abused as servants and prostitutes and scapegoats. Any who showed the slightest hint of magical talent were sent to their eternal confinement within a Circle, where they were still a permanent underclass amongst second-class citizens who were relieved to have found someone lesser than themselves over whom they might assert dominance. The merest suggestion of city elves beginning to stand up for their fundamental rights was branded as rebellion and met with bloody reprisal until the instigators were dead and the alienages had settled back into their usual state of sullen complacency. And to think, Orlais and Ferelden bragged of being kinder than Tevinter thanks to nothing but the flimsy pretense that at least these elves were not slaves! It was nothing but a different name for the same brutal system. Only the brightest or the luckiest escaped from such a vicious and pitiless machine.

But even if any elves made it out of the alienages, there was nowhere for them to go. The elves in the wilderness called themselves the Dalish, and they seemed to want nothing to do with their cousins in the cities. They held themselves up as the last remnant of Elvhenan, the only ones who had preserved the old ways - and they were tragically, terribly wrong. Gone were the vast and elaborate cities, the timeless works of art, the advances in magic and philosophy and government, and the Dalish did not care to recover any of them. Once the Elvhen had traversed the Fade with nothing more than a thought. Now their descendents were content to wander the wilderness in their crude aravels, gathering berries and nuts and hunting for subsistence, herding their halla, teaching falsehoods to their children. Always they were looking over their shoulders, ready to pack up their lives and run as soon as anyone else encroached upon their territory, never dreaming of standing their ground.

The Dalish understood how far they had fallen, yet they seemed to think it impossible to change their fate. Fen'Harel could not fathom the reasons behind the inertia of their culture until he looked closer, let himself be drawn into the deepening spiral of horror at what they had become. These people still worshiped the Evanuris as gods, just as his cruel and arrogant brethren had wanted, and they blamed their current plight on the absence of their deities. In a way, they were more right than they could have known. They wasted their time with pointless prayers to uncaring and fallible beings that would never hear them. They even went so far as to mark their own flesh with ancient slave brands and call it a mark of devotion. And as for what they thought of Fen'Harel himself…

The first time he heard a Dalish elf curse one of her foes with _"Fen'Harel ver na!"_ , he thought his ears had deceived him. But he could not shake the feeling that he knew perfectly well what she had said and everything it implied. He delved even deeper, learned the fables and cautionary tales the Dalish whispered to their misbehaving children, saw the sylvanwood rings of the Keepers and the wolf statues at the edges of each camp, and finally understood what he had become to them - the trickster, the evil one, the great betrayer. The Dread Wolf, who sealed away the gods and damned the Elvhen to a life of poverty and hardship and oppression, and nothing more. And again, in a way, they were right.

Now he understood. He wished he did not. At least temporarily, Fen'Harel gave up his investigations to meander across Thedas instead, lost in thought, bereft. He had erected the Veil because it had been the only method he could think of to seal away the monsters the Evanuris had become, to give the People the opportunity to determine for themselves who they would be and what they would do once no stultifying hierarchy of self-proclaimed gods ruled over them. He had known the world and its magic would change because of it. Yet he had believed the People to be more resilient than this, better able to adapt to a new way of being without losing their power in the process. He had never intended to steal their immortality, to deny them the magic that was their birthright, to destroy them in order to save them. He had never dreamed that his well-intentioned spell would change so many things for the worse, or that it would lead to so much pain and suffering.

 _But it did,_ a small voice inside him seemed to say. Why else would he have gone so readily into _uthenera_ instead of staying awake to witness the glorious new age ushered in by his creation of the Veil? No, some part of him had always known that even as he eliminated a grave and genuine threat he was reshaping the world in ways that would also cause it great harm. He had expected there would be a cost. He had not expected it to be so high.

He had done what he had done so the People might survive. But in the end, the People had perished all the same. The Veil had stolen everything that had made the Elvhen into the bright shining spirits he had given so much to try to save. Now the elves were no different than the Tranquil in the human circles, who had been cut off from the hidden truths of the universe for the sake of saving their lives. Their bodies continued to go through the motions of existence, but everything that made living worthwhile had been stolen from them - and worst of all, they did not even know it. Every one of them thought their pathetically miniscule goals and inconsequential worries were the only things that mattered. They had no idea that none of it was real, that everything they had ever known was only a shadow of the world that should have been theirs by rights. This place was nothing more than a waking dream, a nightmare in which he was completely alone - and he was the one who had built it.

Fen'Harel did not know how long he spent wandering amidst the shards of what he had destroyed before he recognized his now-oddly-familiar surroundings. He laughed quietly to himself as he saw where his directionless roaming had unintentionally carried him, to the massive crumbling castle high in the Frostback Mountains. He still knew its architecture as intimately as the contours of his own mind. Of course he would always be drawn here in the end, back to the place where he had done the thing that shattered Arlathan and set a new and broken world in motion.

Tarasyl'an Te'las had plainly stood vacant for some time. That was to be expected. The magic he had worked there in days long gone by had so strongly left the mark of his inner chaos upon the place that no one other than himself could truly hope to hold it for long. He liked it that way. The last occupants of the fortress had jammed the main portcullis on their way out and had done their best to bring down the walkways behind them, but none of that mattered to Fen'Harel. Every portal in the keep opened to him at the slightest wave of his fingers. The courtyard was overgrown and strewn with rubble, and the roof of the main hall and half of the towers had collapsed - but the unpretentious rotunda in which he had worked his greatest feat of magic was untouched, as he had known it would be. He entered it in silence and spun around slowly in its center, breathing in the odors of dirt and dust and feeling the crystalline contours of the Veil, stronger here than anywhere else, brushing against his skin.

The orb he had taken from his chamber was still in his hand. He raised it toward the ceiling of the rotunda with hot, shameful tears clouding his vision. _All of this is an illusion_ , he reminded himself. _It is not how the world should be. These people never should have existed. None of this ever should have happened. It cannot be allowed to stand. I must undo what I have done!_ Before he could lose his nerve he channeled all the power he could muster into the focus, willing it to crack open, to send its magic of destruction shooting outward to every corner of the Veil, disassembling it piece by piece until flesh and spirit were as one again. He squeezed his eyes shut against the massive force of the spell's backlash...

...And nothing happened.

Cautiously, Fen'Harel cracked one eye open, then the other. He looked around him at the undisturbed rotunda, at the intact orb glowing faintly green in his outstretched palm, at the Veil just as he had left it, and giggled madly in relief. Of course he was not strong enough to unlock the orb's potential. The first time around had required years of research and preparation to gather the necessary energies and materials, then an elaborate spell lasting days and requiring dozens of his allies to complete. In his present state, just awakened and weakened from his long slumbers, he could no more use the orb to work such complex magic than a two-day-old infant could paint a fresco. He would have to study more, to find another way.

He was fortunate to have failed in his thoughtless moment of rage and grief. The Veil was not ready to come down. In his travels he had sensed the many places where it had become tattered over the years, the tears and thin spots and fraying edges. All of these would need to be repaired before he could take it apart without also unmaking more of reality than he wanted to - like the surgeons of Arlathan had once done, first curing their patient of any minor maladies before undertaking a crucial and life-saving operation. For the sake of the People, the Veil had to be destroyed. All the same, he would do so only when the time was right to act.

Fen'Harel sank down onto the ancient stone floor and chuckled again to himself, an echoing, broken sound. Tears were beginning to prickle at the corners of his eyes once more. He had never in all his long years of existence felt so alone. He would have given almost anything for the Evanuris to be here with him now - not as the monsters they had become, but as the kinsfolk and allies and friends they had once been to him, the beings who were still the only ones who could truly understand him. Self-indulgent weakness overtook him. In his mind he opened up the long-dormant channel they had once used to communicate mind-to-mind. He had blocked himself from it deliberately when his rebellion had first begun. Now he cried out into it, projecting his thoughts and his abandonment both, knowing he was shouting into a void: _Elvhenan is lost and I alone am left to mourn it! My brothers and sisters, hear my cry! How can we have come to such a fate?_

And then, to his infinite astonishment, someone responded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Fen'Harel ver na. = Dread Wolf take you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel reunites with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Revisions are going smoothly, and it looks like I'm coming up on a string of somewhat shorter chapters, so here's hoping that I can post them a bit faster than once a week until I hit some of the denser, trickier bits later on and probably drop back down to just Mondays. Thanks again for reading!

The voice that responded to Fen'Harel's desperate entreaty was not precisely a voice at all. It was more like a fleeting and inquisitive impression of surprise that darted away from him when he turned his full attention toward it. As unthinkable as it seemed, he had to be speaking to one of the Evanuris. No other being, living or dead, could possibly know how to use this method of communication. _Who are you?_ he demanded.

The entity, whatever it was, seemed amused. He tried to grab hold of its mind with his, to force it to show itself to him, but it evaded all of his best efforts and remained teasingly, tantalizingly out of reach. _Meet me in the Fade,_ it murmured, and broke the connection.

Fen'Harel's heart pounded in his chest. He set a simple ward around himself and lay down in a pile of moldering canvas discarded against one wall of the rotunda. It took as much focus and concentration as he had ever brought to bear on any task to close his eyes and allow himself to slip into sleep. But before long he found his spirit drifting across the Veil, borne away from his body and the waking world on the hidden currents of the Fade. He cast his senses out in all directions and strained to hear the faint whisper that had summoned him as he took in his new surroundings.

The dream he had entered was not his own. He stood in a ruined and vacant plaza of crackled marble slabs, hemmed in on all sides by burnt-out buildings. Around him, he recognized the towers and fortifications of Arlathan, its trees and its frescoes and its broad _eluvian_ -lined avenues - but he had never seen the city in a state such as this. Its mansions had been ransacked, its gardens abandoned, its grand edifices reduced to smoldering wreckage. A flutter of wings and a rush of wind drew his attention up into the overcast sky thick with grey clouds and stinking smoke. He tracked the shadow of the colossal shape that passed over him, took in the span of its wings and the long undulating line of its ridged spine and barbed tail as it wheeled in the air and glided toward him. The dragon descended on him in ever-tightening circles, and he forced himself to hold his ground even as every primal instinct urged him to flee.

The great beast touched down less than ten feet from him. Its four massive, clawed paws shook the ground where it landed. It craned its neck down to him and he met its knowing yellow gaze. Then the dragon began to transform, shifting and shrinking into the unassuming form of an elderly human. Fen'Harel did not recognize the deeply lined face of the silver-haired woman who now stood before him, but her eyes were the dragon's eyes and when she spoke it was with a voice he never could have forgotten. "Welcome back, Dread Wolf. It's been a long time."

His mouth gaped open in astonishment. Distantly, he realized that he had fallen to his knees before her without intending to. "You cannot be alive," he said.

Mythal cackled. "Well, well. I didn't expect the Lord of Tricksters to labor under such a limited view of what is possible." She leaned down to grip his shoulders and pulled him to his feet with strength he hadn't expected her to possess. "I don't die easily. Surely you know that much."

He pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. "How did you survive?"

"Give it some thought and you'll figure it out soon enough. We all had our backup plans and our little hideaways. You have some too, I'm sure. The others did their best, but they couldn't kill all of me. All I had to do was wait for the right time and place to seize what they tried to deny me."

Fen'Harel could not stop staring at her, trying to reconcile her profoundly bizarre physical appearance with the words that proved beyond all doubt that this was Mythal - his oldest friend, whose spirit he had believed lost for all time. Her death had been the impetus for his first betrayal, and all the ones that came after it. If it had been a lie, what did that make his rebellion?

Resolutely, he put the implications of that terrifying thought out of his mind and let a sneer come across his face. "And you have chosen to resurrect yourself in the body of a human?"

"Yes - with the help of a long line of willing allies. Their heritage is immaterial to me so long as they share my thirst for justice. Don't sell anyone in this world short, old friend. There is more promise in them than you know."

"Perhaps." He did not even try to sound convinced.

Mythal snorted. "You'll have to see it for yourself, then. You never were one to believe in anything you didn't personally witness. Is that why you finally woke up? Checking up on the world you made, after all these years?"

"Not exactly."

As succinctly as he was able, he told her of how he had left _uthenera_ , of the dead elf in his temple and the nagging curiosity he couldn't shake, of his travels and his terrible discoveries. She listened, and when he had finished she asked, "So now that you've caught up on everything you missed, what do you intend to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"That's a lie. I felt you try to unlock your orb just before you called out to me."

Fen'Harel bit off the objection that had been forming in his throat. It had always been useless to lie to Mythal the All-Mother, to try to hide from her divine and truth-seeking justice. Some part of him was so astounded to find her alive again, after he had seen her lying dead before him and torn reality to pieces in retribution, that he wanted to forget this verbal sparring and the plan he was slowly formulating. That part of him wanted to throw himself at her feet again, weeping for everything that had been lost. But that was not what they were to each other, and it was not why he had remained awake. He would not patronize her by pretending otherwise.

"The Veil must come down," he said instead. "When I built it, I did not foresee the consequences of my actions. In trying to save the People, I destroyed them. They exist now only as a broken shadow of what they should be. An illusion. I must find a way to undo what I have done, to restore what once was and what should have been all along."

"I would advise against that, Dread Wolf."

"Pray tell, what makes you the authority on my actions all of a sudden? Mere moments ago you did not even know I was awake."

"Have I ever explained my tree to you?" With the long sharp nail of one finger, Mythal sketched an elaborate design in the air in front of her, tracing the roots and branches of a tree in an outline of blue-white light. He had seen this image before, in the _vallaslin_ slave markings with which the Dalish savagely mutilated themselves in her honor. He wanted to ask her if she knew about their unrepentant blasphemy, but instead he held his tongue and listened. "The roots and branches all start from the same trunk. But they diverge, and spread, and grow. From every choice, new branches form. And from them, other choices, and other branches, and on and on, until you have grown distant from your source. The number of paths is nearly infinite. But the tree is mine. I can follow them all, if I choose." She pointed to the Y-shaped crook in the center of the drawing, where the trunk split into two main limbs. "In the left branch, I hear you calling to me from Tarasyl'an Te'las, and I do nothing. I let you go on thinking nothing of Mythal survives, and your plans unfold without my influence, be it for good or for ill. But in the right branch, I answer you. I tell you what I know. I give you the warnings I have given you. And maybe, in the branches that sprout from that choice, you will heed me when I tell you that it is not and never has been your place to make such decisions for every living being on both sides of the Veil, as you did when you took your vengeance on the others and locked them all away. Maybe now that I've told you this, things will be different this time around."

"Intriguing. And with your foreknowledge of my fate, you wish to control me? To condemn me for things I have not yet done? Typical Evanuris."

"No. You and I both know that the things you've done already are more than sufficient to condemn you." He cast his gaze to the rubble-strewn ground at her feet, knowing she was right. "I do not determine your destiny, or anyone's but my own. Your choices remain yours and yours alone. But where your path intersects with mine, I can see the ways in which your decisions might affect me. By calling out to me, you've involved me, you see. How else do you think I was able to bring justice to those who petitioned me for it? When they came to me, when they asked for my aid, they gave me glimpses of their possible futures. And I used what I knew to steer them in the way that would lead to the proper outcome."

"I am not one of your petitioners, _lethallan._ The justice I seek will be my own."

"Of course it will be. But I give you this warning, for whatever it may profit you. You say that this world is an illusion, and to you, I'm sure it is. But for the people who had to live in it while you slept the Ages away, it simply isn't so. The humans, the dwarves, even the elves you so disdain - they've all built lives for themselves in the ashes of Elvhenan. Lives that don't involve me, or you." He felt the pressure of her fingertips beneath his chin, tilting his head up so he could not escape the intensity of the dragon's gaze that still lingered in her eyes. "Before you decide to tear everything down again on their behalf, perhaps you should ask yourself whether they are truly so miserable as you believe them to be."

"I will consider your words," said Fen'Harel, and knew he would not. The people who mistook this existence for reality were just as illusory as the world they inhabited. He would no sooner give their opinions any credence than he would rely on the imagined phantoms of his dreams for advice. But Mythal _was_ real - perhaps the only real being in this world other than himself. Even if she saw things differently than he did, he could not think of a better ally. "I must say, of all the things that have changed as I slept, your wisdom is not one of them."

"Your shameless flattery hasn't changed either," said Mythal with a sigh. "You're going to ask me to join your cause, aren't you?"

"Surely you do not plan to allow the current state of affairs to persist unabated."

"I don't. But why would you assume your goals are the same as mine?"

"I assumed no such thing. But you yourself just offered me advice on how to bring my mission more closely in alignment with yours. That tells me you bear me some sympathy, at least." He moved closer to her, and when he spoke again, he allowed all of the passion he felt for his cause to echo in his voice. "Help me. Join me. Please. We are stronger together."

Mythal squinted at him critically. He suspected that even now she was following the outline of each possibility along the branches of her tree, peeking into the futures they might share in search of her desired outcome. "I will not," she said at last. "Not today. But later, if a moment arrives when you see no way forward, find me again. If that time comes, we will see what we can offer each other, you and I."

Fen'Harel stepped back and nodded. He knew it was the best he would get from her, and frankly it was more than he had expected. _"Ma serannas."_

"Don't thank me yet." She tilted her head to one side as if listening for something he couldn't perceive. "I must leave you. We will meet again, though I don't know when. Please believe me when I say that no matter what happens, I am grateful that you survived."

"I am grateful that you did, as well."

Her lips curved into an inscrutable smile. Impulsively, she leaned closer to him and pressed her mouth against his in a warm and fleeting kiss. "Wake up," she whispered, and he did, coming immediately back to consciousness in the rotunda. The shadows on the walls had barely moved since he entered the fade. Very little time had passed, but it had been long enough to change everything yet again.

As Fen'Harel rose slowly from the floor, he wondered what Mythal had intended by offering herself as an ally of last resort. He hoped his plan, whatever it ended up being, would never go so wrong that he would need to find out. As much as he had missed her, he did not dare trust her completely. The longer he stayed awake, the more he understood that he did not and could not allow anyone but himself to walk the narrow, lonely path toward all that remained to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Fen'Harel has finally had a conversation with someone! And it only took him 7,000ish words.
> 
> I borrowed the idea of Mythal's _vallaslin_ representing a branching "decision tree," and the prophetic magic that she tells Fen'Harel about, from Evren's amazingly entertaining story ["Wolf In The Breast"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3726364). Definitely check out Evren's work if you're curious about what life might be like for an Inquisitor who had access to that kind of magic (SPOILER ALERT: it's more complicated than you would expect).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel encounters an unexpected ally.

From then on, Fen'Harel paid attention to different things. Before he had learned of Mythal's survival, he had never considered seeking allies in this place. Now, he searched for someone or something that could unlock the power of his focus or otherwise help him to begin the long process of setting the world right. These illusory creatures, limited and benighted as they were, might yet be of some use to him. He kept Tarasyl'an Te'las as his home base as he continued to travel the Fade and the waking world alike. As he journeyed, he listened more closely to the beings whose minds he brushed against. He knew it was improbable that he would encounter anyone he might be able to use without extensive re-education. However, Mythal's survival had also been improbable, and it made him more disposed to believe in minor miracles.

And so it was that when he detected snatches of a prayer addressed to the Dread Wolf drifting through the Fade on a faint current of magic, he stopped in his tracks and gave notice. He often overheard the prayers of Dalish Keepers in his wanderings, their pleading chants and facile entreaties cast out into a void too profound for any of them to comprehend. This prayer was different. When the Dalish spoke of Fen'Harel it was always in fearful, avoidant terms - erecting statues of him as an ineffectual ward against the evil already inside them, telling his parables as cautionary tales, making no requests of him other than that he never hear their steps. Whoever was praying to him now showed no such fear. _Guide my actions, Dread Wolf,_ this prayer said. _Grant me your cleverness and your strength of will. Remind me that there are many sides to every story, and that all too often none of them are the whole and honest truth._

It was the first time since awakening that Fen'Harel had found evidence of anyone remembering him as more than a source of malevolence. He yearned to know more about the person who addressed him with such confidence. He traced the thread of the prayer back to its source, an anonymous glade somewhere in the wilds of Orlais, and hurried toward it as fast as his magic could carry him. The prayer had long since ended by the time he got anywhere close to the place from which it had issued, but he didn't really care who he confused or what he interrupted.

His final Fade step deposited him in the very center of the clearing. Dusk was falling throughout the forest. He materialized across from a campfire over which a single unsuspecting elf was cooking stew in a small iron pot. The elf yelled in alarm and staggered backwards, nearly knocking the cookpot into the fire in his haste to get away. Fen'Harel waved his hand to right the pot without touching it and turned his attention back to the elf, just in time to dodge a completely unexpected blast of magic. The stick with which the elf had been stirring the stew had grown into a full-sized staff in his hands. He was preparing to attack with it again. "Calm yourself," Fen'Harel said, using the same coarse trade tongue in which the prayer had been spoken. With another gesture he knocked the staff out of the elf's hands. "I mean you no harm." His voice was dry and hoarse from millennia of disuse. He hoped the elf didn't notice.

The elf sat down hard on the ground. His violet eyes flickered toward the fallen staff, which had returned to the form of an unassuming stick. He wore the same furs and hides favored by the Dalish. His face was tattooed, but not in any pattern that Fen'Harel had seen before. Sparse, simple curlicues of green ink spread out across his temples, and almond shapes on his forehead and cheeks gave the impression of additional eyes. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Don't you recognize the one to whom you pray?"

"Bullshit."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't know who you are or how you found me here, but you are _not_ Fen'Harel, if that's what you're implying. To begin with, Fen'Harel is almost certainly a myth."

"What makes you say so?"

"My clan, if you can call it that, has followed Fen'Harel for generations. Or at least we follow the principles of what he stood for. I'd expect if he were real and wandering the Fade like the Dalish say he still is, he might have bothered to show up and tell us 'good job, carry on' at least once or twice in the last few thousand years."

"I have almost certainly been in _uthenera_ for centuries longer than your clan has existed."

"Yes, I suppose that would make sense," said the elf thoughtfully. He stood up and brushed the dirt from his leggings. Fear and bewilderment still radiated from him, but he had recovered quickly from the shock of Fen'Harel's appearance. Moreover, he seemed to have retained some knowledge of the old ways, such as _uthenera_ , where the Dalish had forgotten them. _Promising_ , thought Fen'Harel. "But it still doesn't prove anything."

Fen'Harel bared his teeth. "Have you no faith in the one you claim to worship?"

"Follow, not worship. There's a difference. And since when did the Dread Wolf give a shit about anyone's faith anyway? Particularly mine. If you're looking for a prophet, you've come to the wrong place." The elf shook his head as a rueful smile crept across his face. "No, it's much more likely you're some sort of demon trying to trick me into serving you. It's an angle I wouldn't have expected, but I'll grant that it got my attention."

"A demon?" He felt strangely affronted by the accusation, filled with a sudden and perverse desire to prove it wrong. "Very well. I'll give you your proof."

Fen'Harel crossed the distance to the elf with two swift long strides, gripped him by the temples before he had a chance to struggle, and opened the floodgates of his magic. He easily pushed aside the feeble mental wards the elf had erected and poured memories of Arlathan, of the power the People had once wielded and might yet wield again, into his consciousness. He knew it would be too much for the elf to comprehend fully, but that was the point - to overwhelm him so thoroughly with magical prowess and hidden knowledge that he would never again be able to pretend Fen'Harel was not exactly who he said he was.

Within the span of a few rapid heartbeats, Fen'Harel felt something in the elf's sanity beginning to give way. He broke the connection, disappointed and yet unsurprised that even the mages of this age could not handle his full strength. The elf staggered backwards, doubled over, and let out a groan and an involuntary retch. "All right," he said shakily as he straightened up. "I believe you. _Ar ame ir abelas, Fen'Harel._ "

"Don't apologize." Now that Fen'Harel had set aside his initial inclination toward taking offense, he had to admit he didn't blame the elf for demanding proof. In his place, Fen'Harel would probably have done the same. "But you must tell me your name."

"Felassan," said the elf with obvious pride.

"Ah. After the story of the slow arrow. That's one of the better ones they tell about me."

"Did it really happen?"

"Of course not. Are you disappointed it isn't true?"

"Just because it never happened doesn't mean it isn't true." Felassan had regained much of his composure already, a feat of which few elves would be capable. He retrieved the stick-staff, which both of them now understood posed no real threat to Fen'Harel, and used it to stir the bubbling stewpot. "Will you stay and share my meal? If the stories are any indication, bad things will happen to me if I don't at least make the offer."

"Yes," said Fen'Harel. "I will."

Felassan produced two carved wooden bowls from the depths of a massive leather pack and spooned stew into each one. He and Fen'Harel sat down on opposite sides of the campfire and ate together in silence. The food was an unseasoned mush of rabbit and whatever root vegetables Felassan had been able to forage, but at least it was filling. It was nothing like a stately dinner meant to court a new ally would have been in the time of Arlathan, but under the circumstances it would have to suffice.

Felassan's sanguine confidence did not extend to making small talk over dinner with his ancestral deity, which was perhaps to be expected. So when Fen'Harel had finished his stew, he said, "I must say, in all of my travels I have never encountered your clan before."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Felassan. "Our numbers have always been few, and we need to hide ourselves well. To the Dalish, we're heretics who speak dangerous blasphemy. To the humans, we're just another bunch of savage knife-ears threatening their territory. It's not a situation that lends itself well to finding converts, and most of the children born to us choose a different path in the end. That's important to us. To give everyone the chance to change the path they think they have to stay on."

"But you chose not to depart from your clan's ways."

"Correct."

"Surely it would have been easier to abandon them. Why keep their customs if you no longer believed that I existed?"

"You assume they're not the ones who taught me how to think about you in the first place. Like I said, it doesn't matter if something is real. It matters if it's true." Felassan set down his empty bowl and fixed his violet gaze on Fen'Harel. "We all believed in what you stood for. Freedom. Rebellion. Self-determination. All the things we found in the stories of you that the Dalish can't seem to see. I pledged myself to the service of your principles, marked myself with your _vallaslin_ like the others of my clan. Though as I'm sure you'll understand, we had to fill in a lot of gaps about what they were meant to look like."

Fen'Harel had not previously realized what Felassan's tattoos were meant to be. His stomach clenched. "You should not have done that. I would never ask any such thing of my followers."

"You didn't ask us. We decided for ourselves. What's so bad about it?"

Fen'Harel decided that Felassan had already had enough unexpected and unpleasant revelations for one day. "You need only know that the _vallaslin_ displease me greatly. If you wish, I know a spell to remove them." How many untold thousands of years had passed since he had wiped away the slave brands from the face of a new and willing ally, breaking the last chains that bound them to their masters and welcoming them to his cause? His fingers twitched and tingled with magic at the thought of it. To lift the _vallaslin_ from Felassan would be to pull a piece of Arlathan back into this broken world, to establish a first beachhead in the unavoidable war that was coming.

" _Ma serannas,_ but I don't wish it, actually."

Felassan's words stopped the fantasy in its tracks. "Why not?"

"First, you haven't even told me what's so wrong about them. I won't decide until I have more information. Second, I chose them of my own will. No one forced them on me, if that's your concern. I know why I wanted them and what they mean to me, no matter what anyone else thinks of them. And if I went back on my own freely made choices as soon as someone else disapproved, I wouldn't be a very good agent of Fen'Harel, would I?"

Fen'Harel was bereft of a worthy rebuttal. It was only fitting that he should be both blessed and cursed with contrarian, rebellious followers. After all, they had learned it from him. "Very well," he said. "I will respect your decision. And I would still have you as my ally, if that is also your desire."

"I knew you didn't just show up because you wanted to see for yourself what strange elves still prayed to you. What is it you want from me, then?"

"In truth, I do not yet know, not entirely. But this world cannot go on as the broken thing it has become. The People have lost their glory and lost their way. I must restore Elvhenan to what it once was. I must restore magic to the world." Fen'Harel stood up and began to pace beside the fire. "When the Elvhen lost their connection to the world of the spirits, they lost their immortality and their power. Every other indignity my People have suffered has its roots in that one." He left out, for the time being, the fact of exactly who had severed the connection and why. "The Veil served a purpose once, but its time has passed. It must be taken down. The realms of flesh and spirit must be reunited. Only then can the People be reborn. I must gather the magical strength required to accomplish such a feat, and raise an army to stand against those who will stand in my way."

Felassan stared into the diminishing flames of the campfire. For a long time, he did not respond. "If your plan succeeds," he finally said, "it's going to kill a lot of people."

"I know. But if they grasped what had been denied to them, what they should have become…"

" _When did I say that I would save you?_ " said Felassan softly, and Fen'Harel suddenly understood what it meant for words to be true even though they had never been spoken.

Felassan repositioned himself on the ground until he was kneeling at Fen'Harel's feet. "Fen'Harel, Lord of Tricksters, He Who Hunts Alone, I pledge my strength and my mind and my magic and my life to your service," he said in halting Elvhen. "May my fate be bound up with yours, and may you strike me down if I betray you."

"I accept your oath," said Fen'Harel absently. Already his thoughts were whirling with possibilities of how he might use his new ally. Was this the beginning of a new army to rival the one he had led against the Evanuris? Or was he making a terrible mistake by trusting Felassan so quickly? He needed time to decide on the best course of action. "But I have no commands for you at the moment. Do as you please. Carry out my will in the world. Inform me of any events of interest to me. You will know them when you see them. I will speak to you in the Fade about your progress, and then I will instruct you about what to do next."

"That's perfectly fair." A sardonic smile tugged at the corners of Felassan's mouth. "I'd tell you 'May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps,' but…"

Fen'Harel bade farewell to Felassan and began the long journey back to Tarasyl'an Te'las. A plan was slowly forming in the depths of his mind. He would have to consider everything that might go wrong with it before he put it into motion, lest it be ruined by the unpredictable vagaries of this strange world. Felassan's alliance was a boon, but it also represented a complication he would have to bear in mind. As grateful as he was not to be entirely alone in his mission, sometimes it was easier not to have to worry about what others might do to change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Ar ame ir abelas. = a formal apology, in the vein of "I am very sorry."
> 
> Also, [here's the text of the fable of Fen'Harel from which Felassan takes his name and which is discussed in this chapter](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Fen'Harel#The_Slow_Arrow), if you need a refresher.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel chooses his weapon and sets his plan in motion.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as Fen'Harel continued to study the new existence into which he had awakened. No longer did he indulge in maudlin sentimentality at what had become of the People in his absence or fruitlessly bemoan the fall of Arlathan. His mind cleared, and although he still felt a soul-deep sadness at the thought of all that had been lost, he was able to set his grief aside and focus instead on his schemes and his studies. From the ancient dreams tucked away within the depths of the Fade, and forgotten tomes in hidden temples and libraries long sealed away from mortal eyes, and the rumors repeated by humans who could not fully grasp their meaning, he traced the shape of the broken pieces of the world. He began, little by little, to formulate the plan that might reassemble them - or sweep them away to start anew.

On many nights, he spoke to Felassan in the Fade. His agent proved very knowledgeable about current events in Thedas, particularly about the state of the Dalish and the political conditions in Orlais. Perhaps most useful of all was his association with Briala, a young elven serving woman in the royal palace of Val Royeaux who was not only the personal handmaiden of Empress Celene, but also her secret lover. Felassan sensed great potential in Briala and had long served as her mentor, teaching her elven history and encouraging her to use her position to improve the lives of other elves whenever and however she could. Fen'Harel urged Felassan to stay close to Briala, to aid and protect her, and to report any new and relevant developments to him. In time, he might be able to find a use for her.

With Felassan thus occupied in the political realm, Fen'Harel turned his attention to other kinds of power. Thedas had its share of kings and dukes and self-proclaimed emperors, but the real rulers whose actions steered the course of its history rarely wore a crown or claimed a title. One such being was a Tevinter magister who had attempted to follow his Old God's whispers into the Golden City. The darkspawn taint that now consumed and twisted him had been the only reward for his efforts. He called himself Corypheus. His arrogant, megalomaniacal desire for godhood was nothing new; only his survival into the present day was noteworthy. He must have been very cautious, very lucky, or both to be alive and free when all of his comrades had been vanquished long ago. Fen'Harel had seen many men such as Corypheus rise and fall before, and would surely see many others after him, even after Elvhenan was restored. Even a utopia would always have its foolish detractors.

Against all odds, Corypheus's strength was growing. He had gathered foot soldiers from all across Thedas and kept them in line through trickery, fear, and empty promises. He had infected a significant fraction of the Templar Order with the same red lyrium that coursed through his own veins, putting them fully in his thrall. He had convinced a group of power-hungry mages that they too would become deities when he came into his godhood, and thus formed the cult of the Venatori and bent their magical prowess toward his own goals. These alliances and more had lent him far more influence than Fen'Harel himself presently possessed.

But the most important thing Fen'Harel discovered about Corypheus was that he was an idiot. He aspired to master the Blight and use it as a weapon, but such a strategy was doomed to failure from the outset. Time and again Fen'Harel had dreamed of the inevitable defeats of those who had reached for similar goals with similar methods. Corypheus was too flashy, too obvious. His tactics practically begged for a sworn band of intrepid allies or a single fate-blessed hero to rise up against him and thwart him. Fen'Harel did not need to comb through Mythal's tree of possibilities to know that all of Corypheus's aspirations would come to nothing in the end. For all of their shortcomings, the people of Thedas did not allow men like the Elder One to stand unchallenged. He was going to fail, just like the Evanuris had failed before him.

But none of this meant that Fen'Harel could not still use him.

Corypheus's inability to see the flaws in his own plans was the greatest windfall Fen'Harel could have hoped for. As he watched the Elder One's progress from a distance, cloaked behind his own powerful magic, he began to formulate a stratagem that would make use of those ill-fated ambitions toward apotheosis. It would mean ceding control of some things he hated to give up to anyone, let alone a fool like Corypheus. But this was the only way forward that he could find within the constraints imposed by his present situation.

Fen'Harel regarded the orb he still carried with him everywhere. He hated to be parted from it, even temporarily, even knowing he did so as part of a larger design. Without the use of the focus, his spell to unmake and reshape reality would be impossible. But he did not know how long it would take for him to regain enough strength to activate the orb without help. It might take decades. He couldn't afford to wait that long. And so the task would have to fall to Corypheus, the only being in Thedas that Fen'Harel knew could be persuaded to unlock it for him.

Convincing Corypheus to carry out Fen'Harel's will would require trickery and a deft touch. It would never do to simply pledge allegiance and present the orb; Corypheus would rightly suspect a trap. The Elder One surrounded himself with addicted templars, simpering mages, and mind-controlled Wardens because he was not the sort to trust others easily. None of his present allies retained enough free will to think of betraying him, and he plainly wanted it that way. No, if Corypheus were to serve Fen'Harel's needs, he would have to believe that laying claim to the artifact that would ultimately lead to his downfall had been his own idea all along.

In the course of his travels, Fen'Harel had discovered a secluded cave high in the Frostback Mountains, so far north as to abut the border with Orzammar. Deep within it lay the ruins of of a temple in which, centuries ago, some forgotten cult had worshipped a demon for a generation or two before either self-destructing or being destroyed, just as such organizations always inevitably did. With his mind made up, he stepped through the Fade and into the temple's central chamber. Anyone who lacked the gift of rapid, magical travel would find the thick, nearly impassable wilderness on the approach to the cave so forbidding as to be not worth the trouble of exploring it. No one would ever stumble upon this place by accident - but Corypheus or his lieutenants might believe they had.

With a wistful smile, Fen'Harel set his orb upon the temple's crumbling, cobwebbed altar. Then he set about the task of creating an appropriate assortment of defenses to guard his most precious possession. By fortuitous chance, a wyvern had died near the mouth of the cave some decades earlier. Fen'Harel knit its bones back together again and imbued its dead body with a temporary spark of false life. In its rudimentary mind he placed a single all-consuming command to defend the orb at all costs, and arranged the now-animate corpse around the altar. The cult had apparently come to no good end, as evidenced by the large amount of elven, human, and dwarven bones scattered throughout the area. He reassembled these remains as well, armoring them in magically sculpted rock, arming them with the same rusted swords they had wielded in life, reshaping them into mindless skeletal warriors. To defeat these foes would be challenging indeed, but far from impossible for a properly determined and prepared adventuring party.

When he had positioned all of the temple's new guardians throughout its halls and alcoves, he worked his way out to the mouth of the cave, setting up magical wards and clever traps and fiendish puzzles behind him. It would require a substantial expenditure of time and resources for Corypheus's lieutenants to penetrate the temple's defenses and retrieve the orb, and some of them would almost certainly die in the attempt. This was by design. Corypheus would never think the orb worth having unless he believed its prior owners to have gone to great lengths to protect it. Once he picked it up, he would immediately recognize its value in spite of his ignorance. The trouble was in getting him there.

Fen'Harel set a final ward on the entrance to the cave, being certain as always to include a minor flaw in its construction that would allow a perceptive mage to bypass it, and returned as quickly as he could to Tarasyl'an Te'las. There, he entered the Fade to begin the second stage of his plan. It would not matter how convincing the false treasure cache was if Corypheus never learned of its existence to loot it. That was where the spirits came in.

Although Fen'Harel's influence in the waking world had dwindled to nothingness during his time in _uthenera_ , his ties to the world of spirits had only grown stronger. He called upon every entity with which he had friendly or at least cordial relations, calling in every favor he was owed, using every tactic of persuasion in his arsenal to convince them to lend their aid. He summoned spirits of knowledge and inspiration to whisper to the Venatori in their dreams, to point them toward the temple with subtle hints that would make discovering the cave seem like a happy accident. He persuaded trickster spirits to pose as informants for the Wardens or the red templars and pass on news of a powerful, hidden artifact that Corypheus could bend to his will. All of these spirits and more he turned toward the single goal of putting the Elder One in the right place at the right time.

The last and most powerful spirit he reserved for the most crucial task. It was a spirit of certainty, ancient beyond reason, with whom Fen'Harel had been acquainted since the time of Arlathan. Certainty planted a suggestion in Corypheus's mind, telling him that no matter what might come to pass, the fulfillment of all his plans would always be found near the Frostback Mountains, near Tarasyl'an Te'las, near Fen'Harel. It was crucial that Corypheus not stray to any place where Fen'Harel could not follow him. The Elder One would surely not survive the massive blast produced by the orb's unlocking. Nor would anyone but Fen'Harel be able to wield its power and live. So Fen'Harel needed be nearby when Corypheus made his move, to swoop in amidst the wreckage and take what he needed from it.

By the time that Fen'Harel was finished, autumn was well on its way. The heat of summer faded, and Felassan brought news of an impending coup against Empress Celene. Fen'Harel observed from a respectful distance as the events he had set in motion began to unfold. His spirit allies carried out their duties, Corypheus's forces slowly became aware of the existence of the orb, and in the midst of it all he was struck by a sudden and unexpected twinge of loneliness. Speaking with Mythal and encountering Felassan had reminded him of how much he missed having allies who shared his view of the world, who helped him to celebrate his triumphs as much as they supported him when he was in need of aid. Such people were rare now, it was true. But if he had persuaded spirits to join his cause, surely he could do the same for mortals?

He woke from the Fade and turned his attention back toward the mountains. Surely Felassan and his mysterious clanmates were not the only elves in Thedas who could be convinced to see the Dread Wolf as something more than just a treacherous betrayer. The Dalish had tried, however imperfectly, to remember and preserve something of their history. He could use their hunger for true knowledge of their heritage to gain their trust. They had forgotten so much of themselves, but they could learn. He could teach them. He would grant them the insight they craved and shape them into something greater than the savages they had become. And perhaps, in time, they would be his new collaborators.

He cast his consciousness out into the Frostback Mountains. He knew he would find elves there. When he did, he would turn them to his cause and recruit them. And if no worthy agents could be found among their ranks, he would take it one step further and rebuild them in his image. The People would never return unless he did his part to restore them. _Wolves hunt best in packs_ , he thought as he began his search. _I have been much too long alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel would seriously be the meanest Dungeon Master ever. Like Tomb of Horrors levels of totally unnecessary trolling, all game, every game.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel meets the Dalish.

It did not take Fen'Harel long to find a clan near Tarasyl'an Te'las, even though the Dalish were not as plentiful there as they were in more temperate climates. The Frostback Mountains were largely impassable, and even the lands below the treeline were usually blanketed by snow. Anyone who lived there would have only a few months out of each year to lay in enough food for the long winters - a particularly challenging prospect for hunters and gatherers who eschewed all forms of agriculture. But the same forbidding terrain that kept civilization at bay also ensured that humans would not trouble the clans who made their home in barren lands for which teyrns and arls and banns had no desire. It was to be expected. Wherever the wilderness asserted its indifferent superiority over mortals, there the Dalish would be.

Yet the relative dearth of human settlements in the mountains did not mean the Dalish who lived there were always left in peace. In fact, the elves Fen'Harel was observing through the Veil were engaged in a pitched battle against a small band of human mercenaries. Fen'Harel had learned that one of the Fereldan arls who claimed these lands held a virulent and unthinking bias against elves, and resented the continued Dalish presence in the area. The arl did not actually have the influence or the military might to drive them out, so the best he could do was to discreetly offer a bounty for each pair of pointed ears brought back from the so-called trespassers. That explained why the mercenaries, who had the lean and hungry look of long-standing privation about them, had sought out and ambushed a four-member Dalish hunting party. The Dalish had been tracking a herd of deer through a saddle between two peaks when the humans set upon them without warning. Already one of the Dalish hunters had fallen to a human's blade, his lifeblood soaking into the bed of fallen leaves into which he had collapsed. The mercenaries' motivations were thus rendered irrelevant to Fen'Harel. By spilling elven blood, they had made their choice.

Fen'Harel gathered up his magic and propelled himself away from his abandoned fortress in a single great leap. In an instant he sailed across dozens of miles. Thousands of feet of elevation fell away effortlessly beneath his lengthy stride. He burst out of his Fade step in the middle of the melee, provoking shouts of alarm from humans and elves alike. All but one of the five mercenaries had been knocked to the ground by the thunderous force of his landing. Idly, Fen'Harel waved his hand in the direction of the one who was still standing. The man's leather armor abruptly and dramatically caught fire. Screaming, the human dropped down and rolled in the dirt. But the flames were fueled by the Fade itself, and nothing he could do would be enough to extinguish them.

Another mercenary had managed to get up on one knee and fire his bow. The arrow bounced harmlessly off the shields Fen'Harel had erected around himself before departing from Tarasyl'an Te'las. Fen'Harel made a fist and crushed the archer's weapon and hands alike in a phantom grip, then lifted him by the throat and slammed him head-first into a nearby tree. By now the Dalish had recovered their faculties and had realized Fen'Harel was on their side. They responded to this reversal of fortune with fierce attacks of their own. Between their well-aimed shots and powerful sword slashes and Fen'Harel's magic, the remaining humans were dead within seconds.

As the last mercenary twitched in the grip of the lingering current of the fatal bolt of lightning coursing through his body, Fen'Harel turned to the three Dalish hunters who had survived the humans' attack. Two of them had not yet stood down from the adrenaline rush of battle and were still scanning the horizon for non-existent enemies. The third was slumped against the same tree Fen'Harel had used to cave in the archer's skull. Her trembling hands clutched the shaft of an arrow embedded in her belly. Her face beneath June's green _vallaslin_ was as pale as the snow on the peaks of the mountains.

Fen'Harel knelt next to the wounded elf and peeled her slackening fingers away from the arrow. The light was fading from her eyes, and she made no move to stop him. When his hand closed around the shaft, one of the other elves finally seemed to notice what he was doing. "Don't pull that out or she'll bleed to death," she said in broken Elvhen.

"I know what I am doing," Fen'Harel muttered in the true tongue, and yanked out the arrow. It came free with a faint sucking sound. A hot spurt of blood soaked the wounded elf's leggings. Her eyes rolled back in her head and an involuntary moan of pain escaped her lips. He glanced at the arrow to be sure it was intact and that no part of it had been left behind inside the wound, then pressed the palm of his other hand against the puncture. White light flowed into the wounded elf's body, knitting together the severed arteries and veins, rebuilding the damaged muscle, chasing away infection. An uncomplicated injury, compared to to the fiendish curses that warriors had once delivered with rune-engraved obsidian arrows in the time of Arlathan. This woman would live, and remember who had saved her.

He lifted his hand as the spell reached its conclusion and sat back on his heels. The elf blinked slowly, returning to herself, looking down at her blood-soaked clothing. Gingerly, she prodded at her own belly, pulling apart the rent in her tunic where the arrowhead had pierced it. Undamaged, unscarred flesh showed through beneath it. "Impossible," she breathed, awestruck.

"For most mages, yes," Fen'Harel said with a slight smile.

He glanced back at the other two elves. One of them had fallen to his knees with tears in his eyes and a nearly worshipful expression of amazement on his face. The other elf, the one who had told him not to pull out the arrow, remained standing. Her posture suggested she was still ready for a fight, if it came to that. She was a tall, slender woman with ice-blonde hair braided tightly around her head. Eyes the color of a frozen lake, Andruil's _vallaslin_ etched dark red into her pale cheeks and brow, a dagger gripped in each white-knuckled hand. "Who are you?" she asked in a low, flat tone of warning.

"I am here to help you," he replied. He could see by her blank expression that she did not fully comprehend him, so he restated himself in the crude dialect the Dalish still called Elvhen. He hoped the resentment he felt at needing to mangle his own language to be understood did not come through in his tone.

This time she responded. "That doesn't answer my question."

"I rescued all of you from men who would have murdered you and mutilated your bodies in exchange for a handful of silver. Does my identity matter more than what I have to say?"

"We would have won."

Fen'Harel's gaze flickered toward the corpse of the elf he had arrived too late to save. The man's body was rapidly cooling in the crisp air of early Kingsway that heralded the inevitable approach of winter. The woman's line of sight followed his. "Are you certain?" he asked.

"No," she said softly. "But you cannot fault me for my questions. I've never seen such power. How do I know you're not a demon?"

 _Why does everyone ask me that?_ "I assure you, I am not a demon." He momentarily considered telling her who he really was, but quickly decided against it. The Dalish still believed him to be an evil tempter. Better to prove himself otherwise before he revealed his true identity to any of them. "If you must give me a name, call me Felassan."

"Interesting," she said, her eyes narrowing. She obviously recognized the story from which the name had come, and he knew she would incorporate that knowledge into the opinion she was even now forming of him. "I am Isene, of Clan Sou'adahlen."

"A pleasure to meet you."

Isene's only response was a slight, curt inclination of her head.

"How did you find us?" asked the woman he had healed. "Why did you help us?"

Fen'Harel ignored the first part of her question. "Where harm is done to elves, harm is done to me. I want to help you gain the power you need to defend yourselves - not only from these _shemlen_ , but from greater threats. I want to help you reclaim your heritage. To restore all that you have lost, and more."

He wove subtle threads of magic into his voice as he spoke - not mind control, just a minor spell of persuasion to enhance his credibility. The wounded woman and the kneeling man seemed convinced, nodding in unison as they listened. Isene was still frowning. "Everything you say is suspicious," she said. "I would be a fool to trust anything you say."

The kneeling man spoke before Fen'Harel could respond. "Surely that is Keeper Linise's decision to make, Isene. You yourself said you had never seen power like this."

"You would take the risk of bringing him back to the clan?" said Isene.

"He saved my life," said the wounded woman. "We owe it to him to let Keeper Linise hear him out. If he tries to betray us, let the consequence be mine to bear."

Isene was silent for long moments, thinking. Fen'Harel held his breath. _If she rejects you, just move on to the next clan_ , he told himself. All the same, he could not help imbuing this first encounter with the Dalish with more significance than it deserved. "Very well," she said at last. "We let Linise decide." She glanced once again at the corpse on the ground. "But before we can leave, we have a duty to Borean."

The other elves rose and reverently approached their kinsman's body. They cleaned it to the best of their ability, then matter-of-factly parceled out Borean's weapons and the items from his pack and ripped out its seams to create a makeshift canvas shroud. As they carried out each step in the process they whispered petitions to their supposed Creators. "Falon'Din, _lethanavir_ , watch over my kinsman on his journey to the Beyond. Guide his feet, calm his soul, lead him to his rest…" Their prayers would never have been answered even in Elvhenan, but for now, he would let them have their simple rituals of grief. When they were finished, they looted everything of value from the mercenaries' remains and left the rest for scavenging beasts to find.

Isene spoke to Fen'Harel as he watched these everyday rituals unfolding. He nearly jumped in alarm at the sound of her voice. "How do you know so much about us, Felassan? You are not Dalish. You have no _vallaslin_."

"I have no _vallaslin_ because I am not a slave," said Fen'Harel.

"Is that what my companions and I are to you, then? Slaves in need of the freedom only you can grant us?"

"You say that as if I believe you have chosen your subjugation. I do not. It is complicated, as most things are. The humans have used your people as a scapegoat for thousands of years. You have been placed in a difficult situation indeed, but it is not only due to the actions of others. I cannot grant you freedom from yourself, Isene. Only the Dalish can make the decision to change."

"Are you saying what the _shemlen_ do to us is our own fault?"

"I meant to imply nothing of the sort. All the same, a great deal of knowledge from your history has been lost to you. It could make a vast difference in your struggle. I would teach it to you, if you will let me."

"For a price."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've learned the stories of my people well. You say you're not a demon, but you bargain like one. Whoever - _whatever_ you are, everyone who acts like you is out for their own goals in the end."

"This is not a story, Isene. The wisdom I would offer you is freely granted. But if you were to let me teach you, you might find yourself coming to value the same things as me."

"We'll see."

The other two elves finished trussing up Borean's body on the spear he had wielded, and settled it on their shoulders for the journey back to their camp. They led the way up a barely perceptible hunting trail. Fen'Harel fell in behind them. He did not say anything about Isene bringing up the rear of their party, or about the way her penetrating stare lingered on the back of his neck as they walked. He knew perfectly well that Isene, more than anyone else he had met since awakening, held his fate in her hands. He would find a way to persuade her of the truth - and if he could not, he would find a way to neutralize her. His encounters with the Dalish had only just begun. There was still plenty of time remaining for him to make them see reason.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel pleads his case.

An hour or two before dusk, Fen'Harel and the Dalish hunters arrived at Clan Sou'adahlen's camp. They carried Borean's lifeless body, their satchels full of looted human goods, and the carcasses of two deer that had burst out of a thicket and darted in front of them on their way up the trail. Fen'Harel's reflexes had been as quick as ever, and he had felled both animals swiftly and painlessly with a single blast of magic. The clan would eat heartily tonight. They scrambled up a steep, well-worn path and emerged in a small, secluded clearing, shadowed by fir trees and surrounded on three sides by craggy cliff faces. From nearby a stream bubbled faintly as it trickled down the mountainside. The hard trampled dirt around the aravels, the tall pile of dung behind the halla enclosure, and the proliferation of tents and lean-tos - as permanent of structures as the Dalish ever built - proved Clan Sou'adahlen had been here for quite some time. It was a good location, isolated and defensible, and he could understand why they would want to stay.

As the camp came fully into view, he saw the statue on the outskirts between two massive pine trees, and it took all of his willpower not to stop in his tracks and stare. The sculptor had carved a block of weathered granite into a slightly larger-than-life wolf resting on its haunches. The technique was primitive by the standards of Elvhenan, but some care had still been taken to chisel the powerful lines of its body, the deep pits of its many eyes, the cruel smirking muzzle and the half-bared fangs. He was well aware of the Dalish propensity to leave crude effigies of the Dread Wolf at the boundaries of their camps, positioned with his back turned to the decent elves inside as a warning to invaders and a ward against evil, but he had never seen one up close before. _Is this what they think of me?_ he wondered as he passed by, being careful not to pay the statue an undue amount of attention. Someone had left a small bundle of wilting herbs and flowers between the stone wolf's paws, a secret offering in supplication to a forbidden deity. Perhaps neither he nor the Dalish were beyond hope after all.

The elves of Clan Sou'adahlen emerged to meet the hunting party as it reached the central cookfire. The clan consisted of sixty members at most, their ages ranging from babes in arms to stooped-over elders. Their shouts of joy at the return of the hunters and at the sight of the deer slung over Isene's and Fen'Harel's shoulders were tempered by the sight of the shrouded corpse that followed. A young woman bearing Sylaise's _vallaslin_ wailed despondently and rushed toward the body with tears streaming down her cheeks. A child of perhaps three trailed behind her, frightened and confused by his mother's stifled sobs. Fen'Harel paid no further mind to this small drama as it played out. As always, he had greater concerns.

As two women with Falon'Din's _vallaslin_ took the body away, the rest of the clan looked at Fen'Harel with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Isene noticed their reactions, and stepped forward to address the assembled elves about the stranger in their midst. She introduced him as "Felassan, a powerful mage" and explained how he had come to their aid when the mercenaries attacked. "We already have three mages," one elderly elf muttered in reply. _That makes no sense,_ he thought, and added the comment to his mental list of perplexing things about the Dalish to figure out before making them his allies.

"I need to speak to Keeper Linise," Isene announced when her story was done. She fixed Fen'Harel with a steady glare that seemed to say, _Don't make me regret leaving you unsupervised,_ and strode off into the woods in search of the Keeper. He considered sending his senses after her, through the Fade, to listen in on their private meeting and find out what they were saying about him, but decided against it. To withdraw from Clan Sou'adahlen now would make him seem strange and untrustworthy by the standards of a people so focused on communal living and interdependence. Better to get involved with their routine tasks to the extent they would permit it, to show them what he could do for them - and what they could do to help themselves, or at least those who would come after them, if they chose to follow him.

The elves returned quickly to their duties, beginning the process of distributing the loot taken from the mercenaries and of butchering the deer. Fen'Harel stepped up to the men who were preparing for the latter task and said, "Please, allow me." Without waiting for permission, he raised one hand and worked his magic. The carcasses floated upward, suspended in the air where the brightest flames from the fire would give him the best light to work by. With delicate motions of his fingers, he manipulated the spell and swiftly disassembled both of the deer. He peeled off the hides, each in a single flawless piece, and draped them over the wooden frames upon which they would be cured before being sewn into sacks or tents or clothing. He sliced the flesh of the animals into neat piles of meat and set the organs aside in empty baskets and bowls. Sinews and tendons spooled from the skeletons, to be made into bowstrings or thread. The bones and antlers that remained would become arrowheads or hand tools or sewing needles or children's toys or bodily adornments or a dozen other everyday items. When he was finished, the deer had been neatly broken down into their component parts with nothing gone to waste. The Dalish were nothing if not resourceful.

He looked up from his work to find all of Clan Sou'adahlen watching him. The elves' mouths gaped open, and their eyes were wide with dumbstruck awe. A murmur ran through the camp, and a few of the elves even let out joyful, congratulatory shouts. "I never saw magic like this before," said one of the hunters in the trade language. Isene did not shy away from Elvhen, as imperfect as her command of it was, but most of the elves at the camp seemed to make little use of their ancestral tongue. _Yet another thing the Dalish have lost._

"It should have been yours, before it was stolen from you," said Fen'Harel. "All of our people were mages in the time of Arlathan."

"I don't want to be a mage," said a little girl who had been watching him from where she sat on a rock beside the fire.

"Whyever not, _da'len_?" he asked, hoping he sounded kind and understanding.

"We already have three mages. I don't want to leave my clan."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, three mages," said the hunter. "Do they do it differently where you're from?"

"No, for I am not Dalish," said Fen'Harel. "Please, tell me of your ways."

"It's like she said. We only have three mages at a time."

"Do all Dalish clans do this?"

"Not all of them, no, but a lot of them. It's safest if you ask me. Just common sense. Too many mages in one place is practically asking for demons to show up."

"And what happens if a child should begin to show signs of magical prowess?"

"They get fostered out to other clans, mostly. Word gets around at the Arlathven who has more mages than they can support and who might need a First or a Second. Some clans might just cast them out. We'd never do that here, though."

Suddenly he understood what the other elf had meant earlier. "What an idiotic practice," said Fen'Harel, making a physical effort of will to bite back the other, crueler things he might have said. _This man did not establish the tradition by himself. Screaming at him will do nothing to change it. Remember, you're here to make friends._

The hunter shrugged. "It seems to have worked well for us so far."

It was probably for the best that Isene appeared at Fen'Harel's side before he could say more. "Keeper Linise wants to speak with you, Felassan."

"I am grateful for the chance to meet her," he said. He gave the hunter a nod of farewell and followed Isene. Perhaps the Keeper would be more receptive to his point of view.

Night had fallen over the forest. The clan was selecting the best cuts of venison, rubbing them with carefully hoarded spices, and skewering them on spits in preparation for a feast both celebratory and funerary. Isene led Fen'Harel away from the ring of warmth and light and into the hushed darkness of the forest. In the distance, a smaller campfire glowed between the trees, guiding them to their destination.

Soon they reached the Keeper's abode, a small cave at the base of one of the cliffs bordering the camp. Faded banners, scrawled with mangled Elvhen glyphs, flanked the entrance on tilted poles. A crumbling statue of Falon'Din stood off to one side. Isene whistled a brief sequence of tones, and a voice from inside the cave called, "Come in."

Fen'Harel entered the cave behind Isene, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling crowded with jagged stalactites. On a cushion just beyond the campfire sat Keeper Linise, a dark-haired, brown-skinned woman of middle years with Ghilan'nain's _vallaslin_ crowning her wrinkled brow. "Sit down, Felassan," she said, gesturing to an unoccupied cushion, and he did. Isene remained standing behind him. "First I suppose I must thank you for rescuing my clanmates."

"It was my pleasure. I could not stand idly by and watch elves being slaughtered."

"Yes. Isene tells me you are quite eager to offer assistance. But that could mean many things, couldn't it? When the _shemlen_ oppress us and try to force us into alienages, they say it is for our own good, after all."

"I am not your oppressor, Keeper. In fact I am quite the opposite." Her eyebrows lifted slightly, wordlessly requesting an explanation, and he continued. "The elves are not as they should be. Our heritage and our power has been perverted. Our birthright has been denied to us. I have studied the ancient ways. I know many things the Dalish have forgotten. It is my greatest desire to teach you, to help you regain what has been lost. If you will let me."

Linise's eyes were flinty and gleaming in the firelight. "And what makes you think we need an outsider to tell us how to reclaim our own history?"

Fen'Harel decided not to spare her feelings. "Because there are things the Dalish do that are antithetical to everything the Elvhen should be. I am not sure whether you simply do not know of any other ways, or whether you mistakenly believe that your approach is best, but the path you are on now will not lead you to what you seek."

"Give me an example."

"Earlier, a hunter told me this clan only permits three mages as members at any given time, and that any excess magic users are sent away to other clans. Is this true?"

"It is."

"Then you are fools. In Arlathan our people prized magic wherever they found it, from a child's first simple enchantment to the great works of scholars and kings. Now you hide in the woods, making sure never to show the potential to threaten those who rule over you. You build your lives on pathetic, half-remembered legends when you should wield a power that would put the gods themselves to shame."

Linise gritted her teeth and squeezed the edges of her cushion. "You know much but understand little, Felassan. No one rules over us, as you put it. _Ele fel'ala or Elvhenan, i tel'sal juvaslasir._ There are reasons for the choices we have made. How do you think the _shemlen_ would react if they heard that the Dalish were gathering mages? Would they congratulate us on our progress toward rebuilding Arlathan? Or would they see it as preparations for war and call another Exalted March down upon us?"

"If they see your magic as such a threat, why not prove them right? Stand up to them when they come for you. Drive them back out of the lands they stole."

Linise laughed bitterly. "If only it were so easy."

"Few things worth doing are. But I can give you the tools you will need to do it."

There was a long pause as Linise's doubts warred on her face with the hope she could not fully disregard. "It doesn't matter," she said at last. "Sou'adahlen has always been small in numbers. We have not had more than three mages among us in generations."

"That, too, is a loss," said Fen'Harel. "But even if you do not wish to change the ways of your clan so dramatically, there is still much I can teach you. My knowledge will improve your lives, if you will let me impart it. There must be something I can do to demonstrate my worth to you."

It was clear that Linise had already closed her mind to much of what Fen'Harel knew to be true, but the day was not necessarily lost. Making himself useful to the clan in some small way might be the first step toward bringing them around to his point of view. He hated the thought of completing some inane errand in order to win her trust, abasing himself and begging for her favor like a slave before the thrones of the Evanuris. But he had already revealed so much of himself to this clan that he thought it unwise to give up on them so soon, lest they pass word of him to the rest of the Dalish and poison the well against his future attempts at recruiting. He sat back on his heels in an almost submissive posture, knowing he could do nothing now but await her decision.

Linise looked past him, at Isene, who had been standing so still that he had entirely forgotten her presence until then. They held each other's gaze for long moments until some inscrutable understanding passed between them. "There is a task you might perform for us," Linise said. "About two days' journey from here there is an ancient temple. We know it is elven by its architecture, and we have always believed it to pertain to Sou'adahlen's history. But all of its doors are sealed by magic. We have never been able to enter it."

"But you think I might be able to."

"You are clearly more powerful than any other mage I have ever known. If not you, then who?"

Fen'Harel's mind began to race. Many types of magic could have sealed the temple, and he knew how to counter most of them. But there was always the possibility that some unknown technique about which he knew nothing might have arisen during his time in _uthenera_. "And what if I cannot overcome the spell?"

"Failure is also a great teacher. At least then we will know more about the temple, and we will be grateful that you made the attempt. And if you succeed, all of us, you included, will benefit from the knowledge within. Some of my warriors will accompany you on the journey. They will assist you if needed, and ensure you speak the truth about what you see. This will be my only offer. Do you accept it?"

The choice was easy, then. "Very well. I will go to the temple and tell you what I find there."

"Good. Isene will begin preparations for the expedition in the morning. I hope we will all learn much from this venture."

Fen'Harel bid farewell to Linise, following her lead through the relatively simple steps of a proper Dalish leavetaking. Isene led him back toward the central campfire, through a cold clear night full of the scent of roasting venison, the sound of playful drumming, and the soft lamentation of a mourner in the distance. "I am watching you," she said as they walked.

"I know," said Fen'Harel, and nothing more. This first chance to gain agents among the Dalish would set the tone for every attempt that came after it. The odds were set against him, and he could not afford to fail. His position among Clan Sou'adahlen was still precarious. He would have to be more cautious than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Ele fel'ala or Elvhenan, i tel'sal juvaslasir. = We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel suffers a setback.

Three days passed before the party of explorers, led by Isene, was ready to depart for the temple. While he waited, Fen'Harel did his best to be useful and to incorporate himself seamlessly into the life of the clan. He did all the chores of Sou'adahlen's daily life without complaining that any were beneath him. He hauled water, tended fires in the middle of the night, mended tents and baskets, fletched arrows and chipped new arrowheads out of flint or bone, shoveled halla shit. The Dalish did not exactly trust or accept him, but their existence was too precarious to allow them to be especially choosy. They were scarcely in a position to refuse his assistance, no matter how strange or suspicious he might seem.

Around camp, he did not repeat any magic as flashy as the spell he had used to butcher the deer on the first night, but neither did he hide his abilities when they would simplify a task. Let the Dalish see what they were missing when they accepted self-imposed limitations. Let them wonder why their Keepers hobbled themselves and feared what little arcane skill they possessed. In time, the ones who were receptive to his ideas would begin to ask themselves how they could reclaim their power. Then they would seek him out on their own.

Because he did not want to draw undue attention to himself now that he had stated his aims, he did not attend Borean's funeral on the second night. Isene offered him a perfunctory invitation, but he could tell she did not really want him there, and so it was easy to decline. He didn't want to be there either. It was strange enough to watch the procession of the body to its resting place, to hear the chants of supplication to Falon'Din carried on the wind as Keeper Linise planted a sapling over the grave. He could not have prayed beside Borean's widow and his orphaned son and pretended any of the Evanuris cared for one moment about the souls of the departed.

Otherwise, he worked. One of his usual tasks was to fetch water from the nearby stream. He understood why the clan would assign this job to him whenever they could. Where others would have spent half a day hauling bucket after bucket to the cooking pots and the halla troughs, he could simply stand near the center of camp and pull water out of the stream in a long hose held together by surface tension and distribute it wherever it was needed. Every morning as he worked, he overheard a _hahren_ named Velriel instructing half a dozen children in the culture and traditions of the Dalish. If it had not been for that damnable teacher, Fen'Harel might have succeeded in remaining inconspicuous.

For two days he kept silent as Velriel recounted his version of the history of Elvhenan. It was misinterpreted at best, invented from whole cloth at worst. _Don't get involved,_ he told himself over and over. _It will not help. They are not ready to hear this._ But on the third day he could hold his tongue no longer.

"But why was Halamshiral destroyed too?" one girl asked Velriel when he had finished telling his version of the fall of the Dales. "Why couldn't the Emerald Knights protect it?"

"They did everything they could, _da'len_ ," said Velriel. "But there were more humans than there were elves. In the end, sheer numbers won out. If Fen'Harel had not locked the Creators away, if they had been able to act and to defend us, I am certain it would have gone differently. But rest assured, they always hear your prayers, even if they cannot respond directly anymore."

"That is not what happened," said Fen'Harel, more loudly than he had intended.

Velriel and all the children turned toward him like a single entity. "And how do you know that, Felassan?" asked Velriel. "Were you there?"

"At the fall of the Dales? No. But in my travels I have learned the Creators were never as you claimed. You must not rely on them to save your clan when danger comes."

"Of course not. We rely instead on the lessons they taught us. _Vir tanadahl._ The gift of the halla. The magic that remains to us. And so we continue to pray to the Creators, even if they cannot intervene, in gratitude for the things they taught us that have enabled us to survive." Fen'Harel was not sure if Velriel was speaking mainly to him or to the children.

He opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He wanted to seize Velriel by the head and make him see who the Evanuris had actually been, just as he had done to the real Felassan. But what would it prove? Velriel was set in his ways, so devoted to the lie he lived that he had no desire to reconsider it. Trying to persuade him of the truth was a waste of time and effort.

The halla troughs were full now. Fen'Harel ended his spell with a violent downward thrust of his hands. The last of the water fell with a loud splash. All of the children turned their heads toward the noise. He stalked away into the woods, irritated at having given Velriel the last word.

 _None of this is real_ , he reminded himself as he went about his other duties. _None of it should ever have come to pass. It is even more ephemeral than a dream._ The truth was all too easy to forget while he immersed himself in the daily routines of Clan Sou'adahlen. Cut off from their magic, from their immortality, from the Fade itself and from everything else that made the People what they had been, the Dalish could not possibly live complete and fulfilling lives, no matter how fervently they might believe otherwise. It made their desperate clinging to perverted, half-remembered traditions all the more tragic, since it told him they still had some faint inkling of everything they lacked. When the Veil came down, when his new world arrived, all of these false things would be swept away, along with all of those who refused to see reality for what it should be, what it had to be. It was futile as well as counterproductive to pay them too much mind while he waited for the day of liberation to come.

When Isene announced that the exploration party would depart for the temple the next day, it came as a great relief. They gathered at dawn around the statue of Ghilan'nain beside the halla pens. Fen'Harel silently endured the others' tortured Elvhen prayers for her blessings on their journey. To his surprise, five of Sou'adahlen's fiercest warriors were accompanying him and Isene, all fully armed with bows and swords and daggers in addition to the travelers' packs they carried. Keeper Linise was sending fully one-tenth of her clan along on this venture, and almost all of its most skilled fighters. Either they took the excursion even more seriously than he had realized, or they were afraid of what they might find. _Or both._

Neither Linise nor anyone else emerged from the tents and aravels to see them off, so they departed without further ceremony. Fen'Harel shouldered the pack he had helped to prepare the night before and took up his position in the center of the group. From the snatches of conversation he overheard, it sounded as though the bulk of the distance between Sou'adahlen's territory and the temple was vertical. The ascent to the sheltering windswept mountain hollow would involve just over a day of challenging climbing. The trail up which they hiked was overgrown with brush and brambles, but it turned gravelly and littered with chunks of stone as its elevation increased and the ground became too steep and rocky for vegetation to take root. The wind blew ceaselessly, bringing with it an ominous chill of the impending winter. The elves moved carefully through the treacherous terrain, roping themselves together for extra protection when the path veered especially close to the edges of cliffs. A fall from this height would not necessarily be fatal, but it might cause serious injury and would certainly slow them down - an outcome everyone in the party wanted to avoid.

Perhaps it was the strain of travel, or perhaps it was the influence of Isene's distrustful stare, but Fen'Harel had the distinct impression that the elves who accompanied him were even more hostile toward him than the rest of the clan. It was too late for his glib reassurances to smooth over their animosity. He simply tried to give them a wide berth and to do whatever they asked of him without complaining. It still changed nothing. Only finding the answers they desired would serve to alter their opinion of him now.

They rested for the night on a barely suitable patch of flat ground, shivering and exposed to the elements. Morning brought with it the steepest climb yet, a short breathless scramble up to the crest of a ridge leading eastward. From there, the ridge flattened out into a wide, uneven plateau, stretching out for miles ahead of them. Fir trees grew here amidst the boulders and granite cliffs, and a waterfall thundered somewhere in the distance. They put the sound of the water at their backs and pressed onward, clambering ever upwards until Isene suddenly stopped at the peak of a long line of stones whose precise positioning did not seem entirely natural. "Here it is."

Fen'Harel looked down at the imposing black door flanked by toppled statues, and his heart leapt into his throat. He would know this place anywhere. During his rebellion he had created many like it - magically sealed caches of weapons and supplies to be distributed to his armies should the need arise. Few of the caches had ever been opened, and this one was no exception. Even from this distance he could feel its protective wards, holding firm after all these years. He did not remember the exact location of every cach, but he knew he could access this one as easily as any other. Unsealing the door required a spell known only to Fen'Harel and his agents. No wonder the Dalish had never been able to get inside.

The sun had reached its zenith as they climbed down into the small, craggy basin and approached the entrance to the temple. Fen'Harel studied the door as the others clustered behind him. "What do you know of this temple?" asked Isene.

"I am not certain this is truly a temple at all," said Fen'Harel, cautious as always not to give too much away. "Whatever it is, the enchantments placed upon it are ancient. But if I can find the keystone, I believe I can breach the entrance and answer your question." His eyes and his magic scanned the doorframe. Where had he put it? There, to the left of the door. His hand hovered over a brick that, on its surface, appeared identical to all the others. He fed a trickle of power into it, and it lit up with a green glow that quickly spread across the facade. Long-dormant runes and sigils sprung to life, awaiting their master's command. "There. The magic has awakened."

And then he felt the knife in his back.

Dull, uncomprehending shock spread through him along with the sharp, cold sting of the blade between his ribs. "Die, agent of Fen'Harel," Isene growled in his ear. She pulled her dagger free with a grinding shudder as it scraped against bone and plunged it into him once, twice more before he regained enough of his faculties to retaliate. He spun, gathering fire between his palms, and tossed it at her. But the blast was slow and off-target, his concentration shattered by his growing agony, and she ducked under it easily. Two other warriors flanked him from either side and began to stab his arms. He summoned enough power to knock one of them backwards with a ball of pure energy. But while he was distracted, two others came up on his blind side to take the fallen warrior's place, slashing his hamstrings, piercing his kidneys. He switched tactics, building wards around himself and suppressing his pain. The spellwork drew his attention away from his attackers. They took his lapse of attention as an opening to strike him again and again. Then Isene went into a crouch and traced both of her daggers across the tendons of his heels. His last spells fizzled, and he toppled uncontrollably onto the hard ground, no longer able to summon the strength to defend himself.

He supposed it was fitting that his body should die this way. These were the same tactics he had taught the soldiers of his rebellion to use against the Evanuris and their lieutenants: take them by surprise with overwhelming numbers, and strike so fast and so frequently that they never get the chance to counterattack. Now he understood why Linise had sent so many warriors along with him. She and Isene had planned this from the start. They had always known the so-called temple belonged to Fen'Harel. The trip had been a test meant to disprove their suspicions of him, and he had failed it spectacularly. He had been doomed from the instant he first walked among them, but he had been too arrogant to realize it until now.

He did not know who struck the killing blow, opening his throat with their blade. He only knew, as his awareness receded into the Fade and his lifeblood spilled hotly down his chest, that he would never underestimate the stubbornness and audacity of the Dalish again.

When Fen'Harel regained consciousness, they were burning his body.

No mortal power could slay a mage of his prowess, not permanently. The flesh he inhabited might die, but his soul would live on, anchored in the Fade by complex, redundant enchantments that only someone with the power of the Evanuris could break. The immortality of the Elvhen had been due in part to agelessness and resilience, but also to their ability to exchange a worn-out body for a new one as they pleased. In Arlathan this would have been a simple matter, but no longer. Now the Veil locked him out of the mortal world and would trap him amongst the spirits until he could find some way to replace his physical form.

Helplessly, Fen'Harel looked down at his own crumpled, blood-soaked corpse, lying limp and lifeless before the door to the cache, and felt an unexpected pang of regret. This body was far from the one he had been born in, but it was the one he had worn when he made his fateful decision to rebel, when he fought and won his war, when he imprisoned the Evanuris. It was surprisingly difficult to watch Isene kneeling down next to his body and striking the edge of her dagger against a chunk of flint. "No," he cried into the Fade as a spark caught on the edge of his tunic, but it was too late. The elves had doused his corpse with some sort of accelerant, and it caught fire in an eyeblink. There was nothing he could do to stop it from burning.

Satisfied, the other Dalish warriors prepared to return to their makeshift campsite, but Isene stayed beside the pyre. She stared into the flames until they burned down to white-hot coals and nothing but charred bones remained of his body. "I will never allow you to tempt my people again," she said to the embers. "Dread Wolf take you, whoever you were." Then she spat into the smoldering ashes and stalked away to where the others were climbing out of the basin.

This was going to be much more difficult than he had expected.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel runs out of options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a bonus midweek update, since this chapter is a short one and that last one was a bit of a cliffhanger. :)

"I don't have the passphrase," Felassan said. "Briala did not tell me."

Fen'harel stood behind his sole living agent in the secluded glade Felassan had dreamed, here within the Fade that held him captive. He could no longer summon the anger he knew he should feel upon hearing of this new setback, only vague disappointment coupled with the crushing sense that this had all been foreordained. He had known this moment would come for a long time. "Then you have failed me," he said. "Briala cannot save the People alone. Without the _eluvian_ network, my plan - _our_ plan - is doomed from the start."

"Yes, I know. She deserves a chance. And what's the harm, really? Why not let the girl try?"

Fen'Harel said nothing. Months had passed since Clan Sou'adahlen had turned on him and burned his body, forcing his soul to flee into the Fade. In Arlathan his lack of a physical form would not have mattered, but now the Veil blocked him from directly affecting anything outside of the Fade just as surely as it had imprisoned the Evanuris. During that time, Felassan had been Fen'Harel's only link to the physical world, his only means of carrying out his will. If the Evanuris had been in his position, none of them would have hesitated to possess a willing host. But Fen'Harel would not stoop to that, no matter if the host begged him to do it, not even for the sake of the world. No mortal was ever fully willing to sacrifice their freedom, no matter what they might claim. He would not steal the rest of his host's choices from them because of one mistake.

Felassan sighed. "I'm sorry. I will not take the eluvians from her."

Fen'Harel walked slowly toward Felassan, knowing he was only delaying the inevitable. When he had first been informed of the upheaval in Orlais, Briala's escape, Felassan's encounter with Clan Virnehn and Imshael, and the rediscovery of the dormant _eluvian_ network, he had believed it to be an incredible stroke of good fortune. What better way to win allies among the elves than to offer them _eluvian_ -aided travel as a bargaining chip or a way of making war upon their enemies, while he controlled their actions from behind the scenes? Briala's plans, while similar to his own, were too short-sighted. She sought to bail out water from a sinking boat without ever once trying to patch the holes in the hull. But the more time Felassan had spent with her, the more he had inclined himself toward her way of thinking, and the less tractable he had become. And now it had come to this final betrayal, and the necessary response to it that both he and Felassan knew could not be avoided any longer. Better no agents at all than an agent who could not be trusted to carry out the orders he was given.

"They're stronger than you think, you know." The edges of a rueful smile tugged at Felassan's cheeks. "You know, I suspect you'll hate this, but she reminds me of-"

The blast of pure magic hit Felassan from behind and disintegrated him in a flash. A clean death, and painless. It was all that Fen'Harel could give him, in the end. Fen'Harel sat down on a fallen log and stared out into the wilderness of the slowly dissolving dream, his mind racing through what-ifs and contingencies. He had no orb and no body, and he had just killed the last person in existence who he could truly have called an ally. He was running out of options.

By killing Felassan, Fen'Harel had also removed his own ability to directly influence events outside the Fade. There were other dreamers on the other side of the Veil, and some of them might even be willing to aid him - but this business had shown him he could not rely fully on others to act on his behalf. Ultimately, he could trust no one but himself to do what must be done. That meant finding a way to take physical form again. The ideal solution would have been to simply build himself a new body - but in his current weakened state, to do so without his focus would be impossible. Once he might have considered biding his time until Corypheus unlocked it, but so much had gone wrong with his plans already that he was not willing to risk removing himself from the game board for so long. What if Corypheus's minions failed to find the orb, or chose to do something with it that Fen'Harel had not anticipated?

He let the remnants of the dream go to pieces around him and pressed himself up against the Veil, peering into the clearing where Felassan's vacant corpse lay. The flesh was still supple and warm. It would be so easy to borrow it for a time - but no, he would not subject his only follower to that last indignity. For all that Felassan had failed to obey orders, he had not done it for money or prestige or spite or caprice. He had done it because his conscience would not permit him to act in any other way. Could a so-called god of rebellion truly ask for a more successful acolyte?

He glanced once more at the corpse and allowed himself to drift deeper into the Fade, letting his instincts take him to the place where they always wished to return. Soon he reached his destination. The chamber in which he had first entered _uthenera_ was just as he had left it so many months ago. And there, amidst the dusty relics and forgotten murals, was the tool he needed: the frozen dead elf who had fallen through the roof and awakened him, the body perfectly preserved by the unnatural cold. It was an unremarkable shape, pale and bald and middle-aged, but it would have to do. Perhaps it was best for him to be inconspicuous for a while anyway.

Gently, cautiously, Fen'Harel poked a tiny hole in the Veil and let his magic slither through it to wrap around the elf's corpse. It had been a wise decision to leave himself a few back doors when he created it, in preparation for such an eventuality as this one. He alone knew the secret spells that would make an opening just large enough for him to scan the dead body, to repair the damage done to it, and at last to shove himself through it and into his new form. The rift would close up behind him when he was done, and no one but him would ever know it had existed at all.

His awareness traced the contours of the elf's prone and motionless form, studying it both outside and in, creating an exact image of it in his mind so he could understand what needed to be done to make it habitable again. He found the main problem easily: the elf's fall had snapped his neck, pulverizing vertebrae, crushing the larynx, severing the spinal column. With exacting precision, he pieced the shattered bones back together and straightened them into their correct alignment. He smoothed out the windpipe, cautiously wove the fibers of the spine back together one by one.

The elf's skull had also been cracked and dented. He knit its bony plates back together and restored their usual contours as best as he was able. A considerable amount of time had passed, and the tissues that covered the bone were less pliant than he would have liked. He failed to erase a small, subtle scar from the forehead, but he also found he did not mind. It was fitting, somehow, that his new face would bear a lasting remembrance of the end of one life and the beginning of another.

After that, there was still so much left to do. He fed a trickle of warmth into the rebuilt flesh to slowly thaw it and reminded the blood to flow, the heart to beat, the lungs to breathe, the nerves and synapses to fire. In a moment of self-indulgent vanity, he extended the bones of the legs by several inches to make it closer in height to the People of Arlathan than the stunted modern-day elves, and adjusted the rest of the proportions to fit. Then, almost as an afterthought, he ordered the body's hair not to bother growing either. He didn't know what it would end up looking like, and the last thing he wanted was to find out that this elf had shaved his head because he looked ridiculous otherwise. He could feel even more of his power leaving him as he worked, his deepest reserves being swallowed up by the massively complex task of reconstruction and reanimation, but he had expected it to happen and so he was not alarmed. With wakefulness, with experience, with the retrieval of the orb, all of his strength would return to him in time. Until then, he was prepared to make this sacrifice.

Hours stretched into days and days into weeks, but at last his new form lay warm and ready on the frozen ground before him. All of its wounds were healed. All of its normal physical functions had been restored. The final step was to claim it as his own, to fill it with his consciousness and tell the Fade that this flesh was where he had chosen to make his stand. Had it always been this difficult to summon that last ounce of courage, to leave his old self behind? He doubted it. Then again, he had always custom-built his previous bodies to his own precise specifications. Never before had he been forced to wear a secondhand skin like the one he had stolen from this strange, rumpled, imperfect elf. Once he crossed that line, once he claimed the dead elf's body as his own, there would be no turning back from what he had done. But for all of his prim reluctance, the thought of leaving the world exactly as it was repulsed him even more. So he stifled his own irrational objections - _this is an abomination, you thief, if you do this you will lose yourself completely_ \- and continued.

Fen'Harel began to feed his own consciousness, his own soul, his own self through the rift he had made in the Veil, funneling it all into his new chosen form. He felt the Fade receding behind him as the opening sealed itself, as his mind and spirit anchored themselves once more in muscle and bone. All of his possibilities had narrowed down to just one place, to this time, to this body, to this single unshakable goal. If he could hold tightly to that much he would always be himself, no matter what shape he inhabited. He wound the last of himself around the elf's steadily beating heart, felt the boundaries of his own new hands and head and feet snap into focus. His new eyes were blurry, his limbs and torso frigid where they touched the frozen ground. He suppressed the last of his doubts as the rift closed behind him. Before he could decide to regret it, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and took his first breath.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas emerges.

His eyes flew open. His heart stuttered inside his chest, struggling to find a steady rhythm. He felt frail and lightheaded, unable to gain control of his new body or his thoughts. _Breathe!_ Frigid air filled his lungs and burned his throat with cold. He forced himself to exhale, then inhale, over and over, until breathing became second nature again. He lay in the green light cast by the veilfire torch he had lit a lifetime ago, and let his spirit settle into its new bones until it understood that it was no longer in mortal danger. Little by little he retrained his own autonomic functions until instinct took over once more.

When he was as ready as he would ever be, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees and waited out the dizziness he knew would come. The last time he had awakened like this with the newly revealed world spinning and tilting around him as he shook off the remnants of _uthenera_ , he had been a different self altogether. He crouched, then stood, then walked, staggering around the chamber until the tight, cramping muscles of his legs became loose and supple again. If anyone had seen the fearsome Dread Wolf now, tripping and stumbling like a newborn halla colt, they would have laughed until they were sick and never taken him seriously again. It was fortunate, then, that he was still alone and that he was no longer the Dread Wolf, at least in this moment.

After he was satisfied that his body was fully under his control once more, he sat on the edge of the vacant bed and tested the limits of his magic. He had always known that claiming his new flesh would cost him much of his power, and that he would be relatively weak until he regained his orb, but it was not until now that he had realized the true extent of his loss. He could cast a protective ward around himself or another person, direct a blast of ice at an enemy and perhaps freeze them if he were lucky, send his senses or his spirit into the Fade, move objects with his mind as long as they were not too heavy, kindle small fires, and perform a few other minor parlor tricks. He did not even have enough strength to open the _eluvian_ in the corner and travel through it. At least he had not forgotten how to cast his larger workings, even if summoning the energy to fuel them was presently beyond his capabilities. Perhaps he could do more with a staff to direct his spells, but even if he had one he would not want to bet his life on it. This was all that remained to him of the godlike power he had once commanded. He could only hope his strength would return in time. 

His stomach growled. He was suddenly ravenous. He regretted having eaten all of the food in the dead elf's pack when he had awakened as Fen'Harel months ago, but how could he possibly have predicted returning to this place in need of sustenance? Even worse, his mouth was intensely, distractingly dry. He needed to leave, to find water and food - and, perhaps most importantly, to escape from the temple's lingering souvenirs of everything he once had been and was no more.

He picked up the dead elf's pack and the survival gear it contained and made his way through the corridors leading away from his chamber. His environs were just as soundless and abandoned as they had been the first time he explored them. Soon he reached the caved-in doorway, blocked by fallen stones, that would lead him to something like freedom. One by one he moved the rocks away, tunneling slowly through the barricade of rubble until his muscles ached and his fingertips were raw and bleeding. When he encountered a piece of debris too heavy or too badly positioned for him to lift, he shoved at it with magic until it dislodged itself from the pile.

After a long period of intense effort, he had finally made an opening barely large enough to fit through. He pushed the pack through the hole ahead of him to assure himself that the tunnel was not about to collapse and bury him, then wriggled through head-first. Rocks scraped and cut his exposed skin and tore more rips in his already ragged clothing, but he was willing to endure any discomfort to get out of this place. At last he broke through on the other side, sprawling on the hard-packed, unyielding ground in a shower of pebbles and frosty dirt. He rolled onto his back and stared up into the overcast sky with his chest heaving from exertion, wondering where he could possibly go from here.

The terrain into which he had emerged was completely different from how he remembered it from the time of Arlathan. In those days, his hidden sanctuary could only be accessed by a small, isolated door perched at the edge of a deep canyon. But over the millennia, time and weather had eroded the cliffs looming above the temple's only entrance. The resulting avalanches had ultimately covered the building completely with gravel and dirt. He peered down into the gorge. The stones he had displaced when he cleared the doorway had sent even more debris cascading down the steep incline, adding to the piles of scree at the bottom. The entire region had clearly been deserted for centuries. In a bygone Age there had been a village here, but it had suffered a similar fate to the temple. The few ruined buildings still clinging to the side of the mountain above had been reduced to little more than rubble long ago.

The seasons had also gone on changing since the last time he had been here. It was winter now. The trees were bare of leaves, the birds and animals silent. A thick blanket of unbroken, glimmering snow covered the steep, forbidding landscape. Like all elves, he was more resistant to the elements than humans were, but in weather like this it only meant he would freeze to to death more slowly in the end. Already he could feel the cold leeching into him, tempting him to give up the struggle and let its numbing embrace carry him away into oblivion. He shook it off and forced himself to stand up. He needed to find his way to safety.

He picked out a winding, laborious trail that would lead him to a lower elevation and more level ground, where foodstuffs would be more plentiful. As he walked, he gathered up dry, fallen branches and tucked them under one arm. He had to trudge almost all the way to the bottom of the valley before he came across an evergreen bush. Its needles stood out dark green against brilliant white drifts of mountain snow, and its frost-dusted branches were heavily laden with bright scarlet berries he vaguely remembered as being edible. He picked up the hem of his tunic to create a makeshift bowl and tucked away as many of the tiny fruits as he could collect.

By now his burden had become uncomfortable and difficult to lift. The muscles of his arms and back burned as they tried to support the awkwardly balanced combination of the firewood and the berries and the pack he still wore. He half-climbed, half-slid farther down the slope to a flat spot where a tall pine tree grew. He almost forgot to shake the snow from the branches before he dropped everything he carried on the ground beneath the shelter of the tree and huddled, damp and miserable, against the rough bark of its trunk.

He brushed clean a patch of frozen ground and arranged the firewood he had gathered in a small pyramid. There had been some tinder in the elf's pack, and a burst of magic from his fingertips ignited it. He ate the acidic, juicy berries by the handful as the sparks grew in intensity. His shivering subsided, and some feeling returned to his extremities. This small pittance of food might assuage his gnawing hunger for a time, and the warmth of the fire might preserve his life, but none of it would sustain him for long.

His mouth was drier now than ever before. His tongue felt heavy and swollen, as if it fit uncomfortably behind his cracked, chapped lips. He resisted the temptation to try to slake his thirst with chunks of ice, knowing it would only cost him more energy than he gained from it in the end. When the fire was blazing brightly and steadily, he stuffed his empty waterskin full of snow and held it above the flames. He greedily drank the water that resulted, his teeth aching with each numbingly frigid mouthful. Then he repeated the process until his stomach sloshed with liquid and he was temporarily satisfied.

As he fed kindling into the fire, his physical needs assuaged for the moment, he took stock of his situation. He looked more closely at the contents of the pack and found a few basic necessities inside it. Yet it held almost none of the things he would need to survive alone in the wilderness for an extended amount of time during the winter. He had no tent or bedroll, no warm clothing, no bow and arrow, no weapons except a small and dull knife. It was not so much negligence on the part of the pack's previous user as the fact that this gear had originally been intended for use during an excursion in the early spring, when edible plants would have been sprouting and birds' eggs and insects would have been plentiful. Even so, it was hastily assembled. The elf who had been born into this body must have truly believed his death was imminent if he had fled without taking the time to gather other supplies.

For the moment the fire burned steadily, but the supply of dry wood kept dwindling. He knew he would soon need to gather more if he wanted to maintain his only source of heat. That meant ranging out farther into the forest, which meant he would need to melt more snow for water and scavenge more food to keep his strength up, and so on and so on in an endless, vicious cycle. Even if he could find everything he needed without exhaustion or the elements overcoming him, it would be difficult to gather enough fuel to make the fire large and hot enough to keep him warm. He had no shelter to capture and retain its heat, and no materials with which to build one easily. Alone in these conditions, survival was highly improbable. He needed help, badly and soon.

He knew there had to be Dalish camps and human and dwarven settlements scattered throughout the Frostback Mountains. Hospitality was valued in most cultures in Thedas, and any of these groups would probably take in a wanderer in need. If he could stay humble and unobtrusive and pull his own weight, he could bide his time among them until Corypheus made his move and unlocked the orb. However, he did not know where any of these villages might be in relation to the temple from which he had emerged. To reach a village, he would need to choose a direction in which to travel, and to go the wrong way would mean a slow and lingering death far from civilization. He could look into the Fade to get a sense of the proper route, but he feared that if he left his body under such harsh conditions it might freeze to death in his spirit's absence. But what choice did he have?

A sound of footsteps and soft conversation in the valley below, carried on the chilly breeze, startled him out of his reverie. A trio of elves with Dalish _vallaslin_ had come out from amidst a thick stand of pine trees. They were looking with interest at the rocks that had tumbled down the mountainside when he had shoved them out of the way of the temple's entrance. He had not realized until now how large the rockslide he had triggered had actually been. It must have caused enough commotion to attract the interest of a nearby clan.

Although his first instinct was to hide, one of the Dalish had already spotted his campfire. She was pointing toward the pine tree under which he huddled, looking back over her shoulder to say something to the others. He stood up, alarmed by the lethargy and weakness in his legs, and waved his arms above his head. The Dalish approached him slowly with their hands on the hilts of their swords or with arrows nocked loosely in their bows. Caution and confusion was written upon their faces.

One man stepped to the front of the group. He was tall and light-skinned, with red hair pulled back in a tight braid. Elgar'nan's _vallaslin_ were inked in burnt umber on one side of his face. The mirror image of its design stood out as the only negative space within a great tattooed stain on the other half, like an inexplicably ornate void in a puddle of half-dried blood. "What are you doing here?" he said in the broken Elvhen of the Dalish. His tone of voice was harsh and accusatory, the verb forms suggesting inexplicable casual familiarity.

He knew better than to pretend to any sort of great power this time. "Please," he said in the same tongue, his teeth chattering from the cold. "I am alone, and unarmed. I am fleeing great danger and I have barely escaped with my life." This much at least would be easy for them to believe, considering the state of his clothing and his gear. "I will not survive in these woods alone. I beg you to take pity on me."

Something in his words gave the other elf pause. "Do you know who we are?" he asked.

"You are Dalish, yes?"

"Yes. But do you mean you don't know our names? Have you ever seen us before?"

"No. Should I know you?"

"I'm not sure. But whoever you are, I won't leave you out here alone. You are certain to die if I do. I suggest you come with us to our camp."

"Is this wise, Athras?" one of the other warriors asked sharply.

Athras fixed her with a determined stare containing volumes of unspoken context. "It's what we're doing."

"Thank you," he said. He gathered up his meager belongings and made a point of using a simple, muttered spell to extinguish his fire. He did not want to be accused later of having hidden the fact that he was still a mage, albeit a relatively unskilled one. He looked to his rescuers for their reaction, but they did not seem surprised by his abilities - which, in turn, surprised him. So-called apostates were rare enough that one would scarcely expect to find them wandering the wilderness. So why did it seem as if the Dalish had always known what he was?

As they all prepared for the trek to the clan's camp, Athras asked, "Tell me, outsider. What shall I call you?"

He would not call himself Fen'Harel, not anymore. That self had re-entered _uthenera_ , perhaps forever, when Isene had stabbed and burned him. But to come up with a new and suitable alias on the spot seemed unnecessarily complicated and likely to cause him to slip up at a later, inopportune moment. He thought back over all the long years of his history and arrived at last at a name he hadn't used in centuries, a name he had hidden until he had nearly stopped to think of it as belonging to him at all, the first name he had ever called his own. A strange name, perhaps, by the standards of modern elves, but it was one he could never forget. He dipped his head to the others, hoping that by accepting their hospitality he was not gravely misjudging the Dalish yet again, and said, "My name is Solas."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas gets a second chance.

Solas soon understood he was not so much a guest of the Dalish as their prisoner. Before they set out for camp, they patted him down and searched his pack extensively to assure themselves that he did not carry anything dangerous or unexpected. They did not bind his hands or otherwise restrain him, perhaps because they needed him to be as self-reliant as possible during their journey. Then they surrounded him and departed for their settlement.

The pace they adopted would have been punishing even if he had been marching with a full belly and while feeling completely at ease in his new body. After losing his footing and tripping on the slippery, uneven ground for the third time, he lost any sense of shame and stayed on his hands and knees, gasping out, "Wait." The Dalish looked down at him with expressions that were part puzzled, part annoyed. "I'm starving. I am sorry, but I cannot go on like this."

Athras scowled and said nothing. Apparently, his desire to take Solas to the camp did not necessarily extend to a desire to get him there undamaged and alive. But one of the other elves took pity on him and rooted around in her pack until she found a small pouch of dried meat and berries. He thanked her with a downcast gaze and devoured the food in a few rapid bites. When they started walking again, it was much easier to keep up with the others, though he suspected it was partially because they had decided to slow down lest they damage their new prize.

They traveled through the barren wilderness, tracing a path between tall spindly evergreen trees and the denuded skeletons of bare bushes. None of the elves spoke to him. The only sounds were their feet crunching in the snow and the infrequent calls of the few birds that had not migrated elsewhere for the winter. The trail they followed was taking them up a long steep slope. He was relieved to have begged for the meal, though it had only taken the edge off of his hunger. Without it, he was sure he would have collapsed partway into the strenuous climb.

Before long they drew near to the camp. The cold breeze carried the scent of cookfires. Thin twisting lines of smoke, a darker grey against the dull slate of the sky, rose up above the trees in the distance. But the Dalish stopped short of the settlement itself. Athras drew a long strip of cloth out of his pack and motioned for Solas to approach. He did not resist as Athras blindfolded him, knowing it would be counterproductive as well as ineffectual to fight.

Next there was a confusing, sightless stumble that brought him over a ridge and then down a steep small hill, his feet slipping on well-worn gravel as strong hands dragged him along from either side. The same hands firmly shoved him down to sit on a wobbly rock. "Stay here," Athras said. It was easy to comply. Where else could he have gone? As precarious as his current position was, it was preferable to the death that would certainly come if he fled back into the wilderness alone.

Some time later, someone removed his blindfold. The light through the clouds had changed in the meantime, and the still-hidden sun had just dropped below the peaks of the mountains. Now he sat in a small depression, sheltered and shadowed on all sides by tall, craggy outcroppings. A small fire burned in the center of the clearing. Off to one side was a narrow cleft between the stones - the only way in or out of the hollow. It was an isolated, secluded place, perfect for questioning someone out of others' earshot - or for making that person disappear discreetly, if such a course of action were warranted.

On a well-crafted wooden bench opposite Solas sat an elven woman, one of the oldest he had seen since his awakening. Andruil's _vallaslin_ , once black, had faded against the pallor of her wrinkled, leathery complexion into the same iron-grey of her hair. She held a mage's staff, festooned with beads and feathers and topped with a bleached human skull, across her knees. Although her gnarled hands trembled uncontrollably with age (and perhaps with fear) as they gripped the dark wooden length of her weapon, her eyes were clear and bright, the mantle of her sorcerous power obvious even to his newly limited senses. She was not a woman to be trifled with.

The elf who had removed Solas's blindfold skirted the fire and sat down next to the woman. He, too, was getting on in years - younger than the woman, but older than the apparent age of Solas's new body - and wore Falon'Din's _vallaslin_ in green on his pasty, freckled face. "Where have you been?" he asked, in Elvhen, with weary familiarity. If nothing else, this clan seemed more proficient with their own ancestral language than Sou'adahlen had been, which he chose to interpret as a good omen.

Solas did not know how to respond. "In the forest?" he offered, tentatively and experimentally. "Forgive me. I do not know what you want me to say. You act as if you know me, but I have never seen you before in my life."

"You truly do not know us?" said the woman in a soft but steady voice.

"No," said Solas. "Should I?"

"I am Tarasha, Keeper of Clan Vunlanaris. This is my First, Roshan." She spoke in the same tone one might use to gently correct a child's recurrent misbehavior. "And by what name do you call yourself?"

"My name is Solas."

"Very well, _Solas_ ," said Tarasha. The curl of her lip suggested she did not believe him. "If you have never seen us before, as you say, tell us how you ended up in our territory."

Solas thought fast. He had known he would eventually need to come up with a believable story to explain his presence in the Frostbacks and his lack of preparation to survive there, but he had expected to have more time to settle on it. He spoke slowly, saying the first things that came to mind, making sure not to give out too many details and to keep all of his claims straight in his memory lest he contradict himself later. "First of all, I am not Dalish."

"That's plain enough," muttered Roshan.

"I come from a village called Skysedge, higher in these mountains." It was not precisely a lie. Such had been the meaning of the name of the settlement nearest to his temple. Of course, Skysedge had been a ghost town buried under landslides for centuries, but the Dalish did not need to know that. "I lived a simple life there with my fellow elves. I was happy. But then, later on in my years than is usual, I discovered a talent for magic. You must understand how small my village was. Mages were so rare there as to be practically unheard of. I learned how to control my powers and protect myself from demons by studying scrolls and using my common sense, but there was no one to teach me anything more. As I'm sure you can understand, I was not willing to throw myself upon the mercy of the humans' Circles. So I left Skysedge in search of a teacher - perhaps a Dalish Keeper, or a friendly apostate."

"I take it you did not find one?" said Tarasha.

"No. I have met very few people in my travels at all, let alone any mages. It was summer when I departed. I was not prepared for a journey of this length. A few days before your hunters found me, I was set upon by a pack of hungry wolves. I had to abandon most of my supplies. I barely escaped with my life. I am certain I would have died of exposure if your kinsfolk had not happened across me by chance." Solas spread his hands helplessly. "I have nowhere else to go, Keeper. If you turn me away now it will surely be a death sentence. All I can do is beg you for sanctuary."

Tarasha studied Solas with a critical gaze as he held his submissive, pleading posture before her. Although he had thought his story fairly convincing for having been assembled on short notice, she did not seem to believe it. _I should have expected this. By their nature, the Dalish are suspicious toward outsiders._ What mattered was not so much whether she assumed him to be keeping secrets from her, but whether she concluded that his secrets were too dangerous for him to be allowed around her clan. "My First and I must speak about this privately," she said. "Wait here. We will return."

Solas nodded and stayed seated as Tarasha and Roshan slipped away, leaving him alone. This, too, was a test - should he try to flee or do anything else unexpected, he knew they would take it as an admission of ill intent and show no pity in executing or exiling him. But after they had gone, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to enter a light trance state. Here, at the very edge of sleep, he could project his consciousness into the Fade and eavesdrop from a safe distance. As risky a tactic as it was, he could not forget how he had been outmaneuvered by Clan Sou'adahlen because he had not listened in on their schemes when he had the chance. He would not make the same mistake again.

He dipped his mind as shallowly into the Fade as he was able and soon found Tarasha and Roshan crouched a few dozen paces away behind a rock. He pressed his senses up against the Veil to overhear their conversation. They spoke in the maddeningly vague terms of two people who both understood the situation so thoroughly that they did not need to fill in any details for each other. "Why did he come back?" Roshan was saying in a low hiss. _So they have seen me before. But do they mean my spirit, or only this body? Who do they think I am? How much do they know about me?_

"I don't know," Tarasha replied. "He is clearly lying, but when he did not recognize us it also seemed genuine. I have no idea what befell him. But after tomorrow night, if all goes as planned, it won't matter."

"Are you sure? There are so many things he might be hiding. For all we know, he remembers everything. He might have returned to do us harm. We cannot afford to suffer his interference."

"Do you think we should kill him, then?"

"It would probably be prudent, yes."

Tarasha hesitated, considering Roshan's words. From his hiding place, Solas could do nothing to influence her decision, could only wait with his heart in his mouth and wish for a miracle he had done nothing to deserve. "No," she said at last. "I have too many questions to ask him. And he might still prove useful, if it comes to that."

"Do you mean-"

"He is a mage."

Something grim and wordless passed between Roshan and Tarasha, too laden with history for Solas to begin to comprehend it. "Very well," Roshan said. "I'll see that he's kept under guard."

This was Solas's cue to return to his body. By the time he heard Roshan and Tarasha's footsteps returning to the hollow, he was fully alert once more. He turned toward the cleft in the rocks with an expectant, hopeful expression on his face. Only Roshan came inside. "I don't trust you at all," he said without preamble. "But my Keeper has rightly reminded me that we do not abandon fellow Elvhen to their deaths, whether we trust them or not. You will stay with Clan Vunlanaris until we can decide what to do with you. But do not forget, you are our captive."

"Thank you," said Solas, bowing his head again. "Your judgment is fair."

Roshan grunted inscrutably. "Come with me."

This time, they did not bother to blindfold him. _Either they mean to kill me regardless, or they want to give me a chance. I will hope for the latter._ The hunters who had found him in the wilderness were waiting a short distance away, and Roshan shoved him in their direction. "Athras, the Keeper has made her decision. Put this one with the other prisoner for now."

Athras took over from there. With barked instructions and none-too-gentle prods in the small of the back, he guided Solas back up the hill and through a confusing labyrinth of rock formations until they reached a sort of bare, unsheltered ledge. He could tell by the wind whistling rapidly past him that this place was not far from a punishing drop; any escape attempt in the dark would be hazardous and foolhardy, not that he was planning one anyway. Athras threw a log on the dying embers of a fire and picked up a length of rope coiled around an enormous boulder. By the growing orange light, he tied one end of the rope in a tight, complex knot around Solas's ankle. The other end stayed firmly pinned beneath the massive stone. Solas's new tether gave him just enough range of movement to approach the flames and warm himself there, to enter the small tent pitched nearby, and to go a little distance beyond that to attend to his bodily necessities in relative privacy. With his knife long since confiscated, he would have no chance of freeing himself without alerting the attention of the watchful, wakeful guard at the perimeter.

At some point during this process, another elf came out of the tent to observe them, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. This had to be the other prisoner Roshan had mentioned. He brushed smooth, shaggy black hair away from his face to reveal warm bronze skin unmarred by any _vallaslin_. When he spoke, it was not in Elvhen but in the human trade tongue, with a distinct Orlesian accent. "Have you brought me a new companion, Athras? How kind of you! You know how much I love to meet new people." _Not Dalish, then. A city elf._

Athras huffed and stalked away, disappearing back down the hill. The other elf chuckled softly at his retreating back, then turned to Solas and shrugged. "Don't judge me. I have to take my fun where I can get it. I'm Everite, by the way, but everybody calls me Ever."

 _He seems inclined to make friends, at the least. I had best do the same. I need all the help I can get._ "I am Solas."

"A pleasure to meet you, Solas."

"Likewise. Has this clan held you prisoner for long?"

"It's been two weeks, maybe three. I lost count."

"Where did you come from?"

"I was fleeing the purge of the alienage in Jader, looking for the Dalish. I guess I found them, right?" A chilly gust of wind blew past the edge of the cliff, and Ever shivered. "We should get into our shelter. We can tell each other our stories in the morning."

Solas followed Ever's lead without complaint. They burrowed beneath stinking blankets and furs inside the cramped tent, lying back to back to conserve whatever body heat they could. Ever was soon motionless, breathing evenly, but for Solas sleep was more elusive. He could not stop thinking about all of the confusing questions than his encounter with Tarasha and Roshan had raised. They had said and done enough strange things to make him understand that something was very wrong within Clan Vunlanaris. It sounded like something noteworthy was due to happen the following night, but what? He knew only that it was important to them, which meant it stood to affect him, too. He had misjudged Clan Sou'adahlen badly, had made enemies of them where he had meant to make allies. It was crucial that he not make the same mistakes again. Nothing less than survival - his own, and that of his cause - was on the line. That meant being subtle this time, even as he desperately desired to get to the bottom of whatever was going on, to uncover whatever secrets these Dalish might be hiding. He might not be able to find agents of his mission here, but if nothing else, he swore he would find answers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas attends a party.

When Solas finally fell asleep, his dreams were dark and troubled. He could not describe their content, nor name the threatening and ominous spirits swirling around him in the Fade. He only knew that when he woke to someone pulling back the flap of the tent to let in harsh bright sunshine and freezing fresh air, he had passed the whole night in a half-aware, immobile state of vague dread. Beside him, Ever groaned in irritation at the abrupt intrusion of the light. Solas raised his head out of the furs and saw Athras at the tent's opening, glaring in at both of them. "Get up," said Athras. He dropped the flap without any further explanation.

While waiting outside the tent, Athras had somehow worked the ends of Solas's and Ever's tethers out from under the boulder. Now he held their bonds in one fist as if the prisoners were disobedient, leashed mabari. Athras allowed them scant time to prepare before he led them, half-awake and shivering, down a long steep slope to what must have been the central camp of Clan Vunlanaris. Athras knotted his end of the ropes around a stake driven into the hard ground and pointed at a willowy, dark-haired child of perhaps ten who was poking at the coals of the main cookfire with a sharp stick. "They're your problem now," he told her, then strode away.

"Athras does this every day," Ever said under his breath. "He sticks me out here in front of everyone so they'll notice right away if I try to run off. Not that I intend to."

"Nor do I," said Solas.

Ever turned toward the child, and a genuine, unguarded grin spread across his narrow lips. "What's for breakfast today, Davhalla?" he asked the child, with disarming tenderness. Wordlessly, but with a poorly concealed grin, Davhalla brought each of them a bowl of hot acorn mash ladled out of the massive iron cauldron steaming over the central fire. Solas's portion was meager, Ever's much less so.

After they had finished eating, there was nothing to do but to huddle together under the furs they had brought down from the tent, sheltering beside a large rock that afforded them some protection from the incessant, frigid wind. Throughout the day, Ever talked constantly, identifying the various members of the clan and filling Solas in on what he had learned of their roles, their skills, their preferences, their relationships, the various minor dramas of their mundane lives. Some of the Dalish interacted with Ever in passing on their way from one task to another, treating him as something in between a nuisance and a pet. Solas wondered why they would allow Ever to remain in this liminal state for so long, holding him prisoner without either accepting him into the clan or casting him out to fend for himself.

At times, Ever alluded to the horrors he had witnessed in Jader that had impelled him to escape. Though it had been less than a year since Solas had emerged from _uthenera_ , the story was already too familiar: an alienage burned and purged as collateral damage in the Orlesian civil war, the suffering and death of countless family members and friends, a fortuitous escape, a flight into the wilderness, a desperate search, and at last the regrettable discovery that Dalish society was not nearly so welcoming or so utopian as city elves believed it to be. When Ever gently prodded Solas about his own background, he spun the same tale he had told to Roshan and Tarasha, and dodged the none-too-subtle requests for more detail. This clan's life interested him far more than any exchange of tragic personal narratives. Clan Vunlanaris was hiding many secrets - from him and from Ever, certainly, but perhaps from itself as well.

By morning's light, Solas had his first good look at the clan's territory. He found it even more isolated and forbidding than he had expected. Judging by the sparseness of the vegetation around the camp and by the way the thin air burned his lungs as he struggled for each breath, Clan Vunlanaris's lands were at a much higher elevation than Clan Sou'adahlen's had been. Vunlanaris's main settlement nestled within the crater of a long-dormant, snow-capped volcano. There were only a few gaps in the rim through which to enter the village, concealed and shadowed by the steep rock walls. It was easily the most defensible and best-hidden Dalish encampment he had ever seen.

All the same, the location had substantial disadvantages. Even as it shielded Vunlanaris from the outside world, it also cut them off from many essential resources. To hunt for large game or to forage for substantial amounts of food, the clan would have to venture far down the mountainside - and based upon what he had seen of the surrounding landscape, even there game would be anything but plentiful. Moreover, Solas could detect no reliable source of fresh water within the crater itself. Porous cloth bags packed with snow and ice hung near the central fire, slowly dripping snowmelt into earthen vessels placed below them. Collecting enough water for everyone had to involve constant, backbreaking labor, and the task would be even harder in summer. What could possibly have happened to make this clan choose such a difficult existence in exchange for the site's concealment and protection?

Vunlanaris appeared quite settled in its chosen domain. Most of the clan members lived in solid-seeming earthen dwellings with thatched roofs. The few visible aravels were ill-kept and broken down, their rickety wheels frozen to the ground. Even stranger and more disconcerting was what the clan lacked. Solas tapped Ever on the shoulder and asked quietly, "Where are the halla?"

"I don't think they have any," Ever said. "At least, I've never seen one."

"Aren't halla sacred to the Dalish? One should expect they would keep at least a few."

"Sacred or not, they're useless mouths to feed and water if you're not going to use them. You saw the terrain coming in. I have no idea how they got anything with wheels over these mountains in the first place. Basically, I never know what to expect from this clan."

"Nor do I," said Solas.

Clan Vunlanaris was larger than Sou'adahlen by perhaps a score of members. Each one of them moved purposefully about the village in a state of near-constant activity, single-mindedly focused upon their tasks. All of them plainly understood how precarious their survival in this place was, and knew the importance of pulling their own weight. As Solas watched them go about their business, he whispered another question to Ever. "Are there no children in this clan?"

"Other than Davhalla? Not really, no." Ever tilted his head toward the girl who had spent the day giving perfunctory attention to the prisoners' needs. She was now carefully sliding a full pot of water almost as tall as she was out from under the melt bags. "And she told me she's not even from Vunlanaris, if you want to get technical about it. Her clan just used to trade with them. But the bloody flux took most of Davhalla's clan last summer, her parents included. Keeper Tarasha took her and the other survivors in."

"Why do they have no children of their own?"

"I haven't a clue. Whatever's going on, it's not something they talk about around me." Ever gestured past the campfire to a small circle of women gathered beneath a gnarled, stunted spruce tree. "But I do know the fact that this clan isn't having babies is part of what makes Zula so important."

The young woman at whom Ever was pointing could scarcely be older than twenty. She sat on a low wooden stool, surrounded by elders who were wrapping her feet in fresh clean cloth, sliding bracelets over her wrists and ankles, braiding the thick coils of her black hair into elaborate patterns. Her rich brown skin marked her as someone likely born outside Clan Vunlanaris; almost all of the other elves here were fair, red-haired, and freckled. Yet she was Dalish enough to bear Dirthamen's _vallaslin_. The loathsome curves and dots and dashes of the tattoos, sketched in white ink across her youthful face, were so fresh as to be still swollen and scabbed over in places. He turned his gaze away, disgusted. "I take it she is Zula?"

"You've got it. She's a mage, too. Davhalla told me the clan's having some big ceremony tonight to officially initiate her as Second. I guess it's been a long time since they had more than just the Keeper and the First."

"Good for them," Solas muttered. The initiation ritual must have been what he had overheard Tarasha and Roshan talking about the night before. _But what do I have to do with that? And why would my presence not matter any more after the ritual was completed, as Tarasha claimed?_ He had no way of knowing - but every instinct he possessed warned him that whatever secrets Vunlanaris was hiding, Zula was about to blunder into them. He felt a sudden, unexpected twist of fear for the precipice upon which this unsuspecting young mage now teetered, never suspecting the danger she might be in.

On the other side of the fire pit, the elders had finished with Zula's hair and clothing and were encouraging her to show off her attire. She stood up and, with a shy smile, began to twirl slowly. Her leather skirts swirled out around her as she moved around the flames in a smooth and graceful dance. As she raised her arms, a single too-large bangle slipped from her wrist and rolled across the frozen ground toward Solas. He caught it when it reached him and held it up so it glinted in the fading light.

Zula approached with some trepidation, extending her hand to him. From this distance he could see the deft and detailed craftsmanship of her dress, the elaborate beadwork on the bodice, the fine embroidery on the leggings. The leather was stiff and new; she must have been the first to wear this garb. Clan Vunlanaris had clearly invested much in her. Something in her nervousness brought out the Wolf in him, no matter how valiantly he tried to suppress it, and he gave her a teasing smile. "And what will you give me in exchange for your precious jewels?" he said in Elvhen, holding up the bracelet.

"Nothing, if their price is my freedom," she responded without hesitation. Her Elvhen was excellent, although tinged with a faint and unidentifiable accent that told him it was not her native tongue. "But if you wish to join your cause to mine, then you may beg a boon of me."

Solas froze, taken aback. The words he had jokingly spoken came from an ancient folktale of Elvhenan, one that he had believed long forgotten by the Dalish. But Zula had recited the next line of the dialogue flawlessly and immediately. He handed her the bangle without meeting her gaze again. _Who is this woman? Where did she come from? How did she end up here?_ Out of the corner of his eye he saw her frown, and her mouth opened slightly as if she intended to speak again. Then one of the old women called out to her, and she snatched the bracelet from his hand and hurried away.

"What was that all about?" asked Ever, who had been observing the entire exchange.

"I'm not sure," murmured Solas, and said no more. Ever was obviously frustrated by the lack of detail, but at the moment Solas had no desire to elaborate. He wasn't certain he could even explain it to himself anyway.

Night was falling by the time Athras came to retrieve Solas and Ever. He was carrying a long spear adorned with beads and feathers, and there was a new, grim set to his jaw. He beckoned for Davhalla to follow him as he untied their ropes from the stake and led them back to their tent, which Solas now understood to be located on a large flat rock jutting out from the rim of the crater. Using the butt of the spear as a lever, Athras heaved the boulder aside in a display of staggering strength and wedged the ends of the ropes beneath it once more. Solas was not certain whether he and Ever, working in concert, would have been able to do the same.

Athras bound Solas's and Ever's hands. Then he knelt down next to Davhalla and said in Elvhen, "Tonight your duty is to guard the prisoners, little one. Do not untie them for any reason, and do not take your attention away from them until I return to relieve you after the ceremony. Do you understand?" She nodded, her eyes wide and earnest, her windburned lips pursed.

"What did he say?" Ever whispered as Athras departed. _He doesn't speak Elvhen,_ Solas realized with a start. _Amazing, that he was able to discern so much about the inner workings of the clan without even understanding their language._

Davhalla had lain down next to the fire and was blowing on the coals to reignite them. "He's trying to protect her from something." Why else would Athras insist upon keeping her far away from what should have been a joyous celebration? The more Solas learned about Zula's initiation, the more he wanted to get to the bottom of what was happening. "I'm tired," he announced loudly. "I'm going to bed."

"Don't you at least want to wait until the feast gets started?" asked Ever. "Maybe they'll bring us some leftovers from that elk they've been roasting all day."

"If they do, wake me up," said Solas. He crawled into the tent and burrowed under the furs to hide himself from prying eyes, but he did not sleep. Judging by the sound of drums and of exuberant singing carrying up from the village, the ceremony was about to begin. He did not intend to miss it. Despite the awkward position the ropes on his wrists and ankle forced him to adopt, he soon fell into a light trance state. He let his consciousness slacken its ties to his body and skated out along the edge of the Veil, searching for Zula.

He located her within minutes, climbing up the side of the crater in the company of Tarasha, Roshan, Athras, and a few other warriors. Each one of them carried a lit torch in one hand and a spear or staff in the other. The rest of Clan Vunlanaris showed no signs of abandoning their drumming, dancing, and feasting in the camp below. He found it strange that so few elves would be present for a ritual meant to welcome a new clan member. Was it because Zula would be the Second? Had the Dalish foolishly decided to reserve some mysteries for mages alone?

He followed their ascent to its destination - a flat spot on the rim, much like the one upon which he and Ever were confined, but larger and obscured from the view of those below by tall, rocky protrusions along its inner face. Two other warriors had been waiting there, building up a massive bonfire in the center. A smaller, oblong black rock like an altar stood beside the fire. The Veil was thin here. It hummed against his senses, barely holding back the deep swift currents of magic coursing around everyone and everything present.

The ceremony began. The joined voices of the elves rose up in well-worn prayers to their gods, asking for the protection and favor of beings who had never spared them a moment of thought. They chanted in harmony as Tarasha spread colored sand around them in a wide and elaborate circle, the design naggingly familiar somehow. Zula's face was radiant in the center of it all, alight with the deep contentment that only came from the achievement of a long-sought dream. She was happy. This was what she wanted. Had Solas been wrong to fear for her safety?

Just as his attention was faltering, the tone of the chanting changed and reached a peak. Zula lay willingly on the altar as Roshan wound woven silk cords around her wrists and ankles. Was this normal? The chant trailed off into silence. "I am Dalish," Zula recited with total determination as Roshan tightened the knots, "a keeper of the lost lore, a walker of the lonely path. I am the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall I submit."

"Do you bind yourself to the will of Clan Vunlanaris?" Tarasha asked, moving into the center of the circle to stand beside Roshan.

"Yes, Keeper. I pledge myself to the clan for all the days of my life."

"Then I name you Zula Vunlanaris, Second of her clan and an Elvhen of the Dalish." Solas had expected Tarasha's words to provoke shouts of exultation from the warriors, but none of them made a sound. Tarasha herself had spoken as if she were pronouncing a death sentence, not welcoming a new apprentice. Zula's tattooed brow wrinkled, but she did not move as Tarasha and Roshan lifted their staves in tandem and slammed them down against the rock. The lines of sand lit up with red and purple energy. Solas suddenly remembered where he had seen this kind of circle before. "Desiderata! I call you forth! I offer you a mage of Clan Vunlanaris, in fulfillment of our final bargain."

The air within the circle crackled with power. The desire demon slipped through the Veil in an eyeblink and materialized above the stone altar. It wore the form that its kind had come to favor in these times: lavender skin, curved horns, sharp fingernails, an hourglass shape, exaggerated feminine features. _What a waste,_ thought Solas. _They expect to see a foul temptress from the Fade, and so their fear has twisted this spirit into something no better than a vicious animal._

Zula sat up. Shock and sadness and betrayal and terror each flickered across her face before her expression settled into a single sublimated emotion: rage. She threw her head back and let out a primal bellow, surely audible to the other Dalish in the crater below. A burst of orange fire erupted outwards from her body. Tarasha, Roshan, and the demon alike cringed away as Zula burned her own bonds to cinders.

She jumped down from the altar and picked up her staff from where she had left it nearby. Long-practiced forms took over as she swung its length around in a looping, controlled arc. A gout of flame shot out of its tip and struck the demon - Desiderata, Tarasha had called it - in the torso, but left no wound beyond a minor scorch mark. Zula's spells had been perfect so far, powerful and precise, the product of years of diligent study and training. Solas knew almost nothing about her, but he could see by the firm set of her shoulders that she would not waver, would not give in to temptation, would not rest until this fight was finished one way or another.

Yet even so, if she fought Desiderata alone, she was undoubtedly going to lose.

Solas pushed himself away from the Veil, moving closer to his body, a sick sensation building inside of him. _She isn't real,_ he reminded himself. _None of this is real. Just because she is a mage, just because she happened to remember something the Dalish had forgotten, doesn't change matters. She is still blind to half the world. You need not concern yourself with her life or her death._ He had wanted to discover Clan Vunlanaris's secret. Now he knew. Acting on his knowledge would put him in a precarious situation once again - and this time, he could not afford to let his body be killed. It was far wiser to avoid drawing attention to himself, to let this scenario play out as it would without his intervention, lest he become distracted from his real purpose in the world he had broken.

He did not need to get involved in any of this. All he had to do was to watch Zula die.

With an inward curse at his own foolishness, he returned to his body. He sat up with a single abrupt motion, fighting his way free of the entangling furs and blankets. Ever, who had just retired to the tent for the night, cried out in alarm at Solas's sudden awakening. "Fuck! What are you doing?"

"Something I shouldn't," Solas said.

Davhalla's head snapped up as Solas stormed out of the tent with the confused Ever on his heels. "Go back inside," she said, her voice shaking.

" _Da'len,_ " said Solas in a calm and faintly pleading tone. He switched to the trade tongue for Ever's benefit. "I must ask you to free me at once."

Davhalla narrowed her eyes. "I'm not supposed to do that."

"I know. I would not ask it of you if my need were not truly dire. Your clan is under attack by a demon. You must release me so I may render assistance."

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

"See for yourself." Solas jerked his head in the direction of the ritual site, which was not far from his current makeshift prison. The light of Zula's firebolts reflected off the rocks. Her shouts of rage and the sounds of the battle were audible even over the continued pounding of the drums in the camp. "Please, _da'len_. I promise I will not harm you or attempt to flee from you. Let me help you save your clan."

Davhalla looked back and forth between Solas and the ritual site a few times before she said, "I'm coming with you."

"So am I," said Ever from behind him. "I'll make sure he keeps his promise."

"Then I'll help." Davhalla pulled a small, dull knife out of her belt and sawed apart the ropes on Solas's and Ever's hands and feet. Then they set out along the rim of the crater as rapidly as they could safely move in the dark.

As they moved, Solas's certainty grew. He was tired of watching the Dalish wilfully pervert their own heritage with false gods and corrupted spirits. He would not stand by and watch them continue to tear down what little remained of Arlathan, piece by misremembered piece. He would not let their poor grasp of history cause the death of an elf who showed even a glimmer of the People in her. Getting involved was, in many ways, a terrible mistake. But it would have been an even greater mistake to choose to do nothing at all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and other survivors make a narrow escape.

Solas, Ever, and Davhalla made their cautious way along the rim of the crater. Chunks of jagged volcanic rock scraped Solas's legs and cut into the bottoms of his feet. He moved at a steady, measured pace, conscious of the steep drop to either side of his narrow path. A fall from this height would probably not kill him outright, which frightened him even more than the thought of plummeting unavoidably to his death. If a false step sent him tumbling into the field of sharp stones below, how long would he suffer before his broken body finally released its grip on his spirit? What would become of the People then? He tried not to dwell upon it.

Doubt seized him anew as the ritual site came into view. What if he was too late, and Desiderata had already killed or possessed Zula? Was he about to put all of his carefully laid plans at risk for nothing? But then she cried out in rage, and another blast of magic lit up the sky above the summoning circle. He increased his pace, heedless of the danger. _What are you doing?_ something inside him continued to scream. _Would you really risk everything for the sake of one apprentice mage? Are you truly this lonely, this desperate for allies?_

He arrived just in time. Zula's energy was waning, her attacks becoming sloppy and inconsistent. Any injuries she had caused to Desiderata were superficial at best. None of the Dalish assembled there had made any move to intervene. _Cowards,_ he thought. They were so focused on the battle that they had not noticed his approach, nor had they seen Ever and Davhalla creeping stealthily behind him. He stopped just shy of the perimeter and held out one hand, concentrating his magic on the space between himself and the demon. Spells did not come easily to him anymore, and he knew he would only have one chance to get this one right.

Power gathered in his palm and at the tips of his fingers, crystallizing like a thin crust of frost that barely held back a greater chill, as he waited for Desiderata to drift into his line of sight. When the moment arrived, all he had to do was let go. He pulled the Veil aside just far enough to admit a narrow swirling line of magic into the physical world. His aim was perfect - and, more importantly, Desiderata was unprepared for the attack. The ray of cold struck the demon in the center of its torso, covering it in a layer of ice and temporarily immobilizing it.

Zula, to her credit, reacted instantaneously. As the rest of the elves were still trying to figure out what had happened, she was already running past the frozen demon. A single strong leap carried her over the lines of sand and out of the summoning circle. She came to a halt in front of Solas, her face filled with gratitude. She held out her staff in a defensive posture, as did Roshan and Tarasha. The warriors tightened their grips on their weapons.

"What is the meaning of this?" Tarasha said, her voice shaking. Her expression was that of someone had just discovered a precious, irreplaceable keepsake in shards before her. It was the way he must have looked, Solas realized, when he emerged from _uthenera_ and first saw the shape of the world he had created. Beside her, Roshan's face was a mask of devastated shock.

From inside the circle came the noise of something shattering. The ice that had encased Desiderata fell to the ground in chunks. The demon levitated higher in the air and floated in Zula's direction, but its violet eyes were fixed on Solas. A cruel smile of recognition tugged at the corners of its plump lips. "The one who got away," it purred.

 _How does it know me?_ Solas tried not to let his alarm show. If it did, the others did not notice. They were staring at Zula instead. She tightened her grip on her staff and said, "You might as well call me the same, demon. If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already. So you must want my soul. You won't have it. You can only possess the willing."

"I know," said Desiderata. "It's my job to _make_ you willing." Its vicious grin grew wider. For the first time since she had arrived at the ritual site, Zula looked utterly terrified.

Desiderata glided along the edge of the summoning circle. _It's trapped,_ Solas realized. _The circle confines it. Tarasha was at least smart enough to make sure it would stay contained if anything went wrong._ "Keeper," it said in a light and smirking tone. "First. The mage you provided seems to have wandered off. If I am to complete our bargain, you must bring her back to me."

Tarasha hesitated. Her eyes were brimming with tears. "You promised me I would not have to raise a hand against her," she whispered.

Desiderata shrugged. "I lied."

Tarasha's shoulders sagged briefly in defeat. Then she took a deep breath and straightened up as she came to her decision. "No," she said. "I will do many things in service to this clan. But I will not attack my Second, by your command or any other." Slowly, deliberately, she stepped back into the summoning circle. "If you would have a mage, have me."

Languidly, almost casually, Desiderata floated toward Tarasha and put a hand on each side of her face. With a single sharp nail it traced the outline of her _vallaslin_. "You know," it said cheerfully, "that wasn't really part of the agreement."

And with a single sharp sideways yank, it ripped Tarasha's head off.

The decapitated body slumped to the ground at the foot of the altar. Blood fountained from the stump of the neck. Outside the circle, chaos reigned. Zula let out a single body-wracking sob before she suppressed on her emotions with a visible effort of will. Behind her, Ever and Davhalla were both screaming. Solas fought back a rising tide of panic and the sick sensation of inevitability growing in his chest. The death of this clan's Keeper had just escalated the situation past the point at which it might have been resolved without violence. If he did not keep a clear head and rise above the mayhem that would now no doubt ensue, he would not survive the night.

He was thoroughly unsurprised when the warriors raised their weapons and began to rush toward Desiderata. Roshan's voice, for all that it shook with grief and horror, cut through the din and stopped them. "Do not cross the line of sand! As long as we stay outside the circle, the demon cannot harm us!" All of them obeyed - except Athras, who wheeled around and charged down the mountainside in the direction of the village. At first, Solas mistook it for a cowardly retreat. But when he glimpsed Athras's face in passing there was no fear in it, only grim determination.

"You're right," said Desiderata, paying Athras no mind. It flippantly tossed Tarasha's head to one side, sending it rolling over the rim of the crater. "I have been constrained in so many ways. My agreement with your Keeper is just one of them. She promised me a mage, and I want _this one_. I will ask you one more time, First: Will you give her to me?"

Roshan balked, but Zula did not. She squared her shoulders and said flatly, "It doesn't matter what he tells you. I won't go."

"If Clan Vunlanaris will not uphold its side of the bargain," Desiderata said in a cautionary tone, "then I am no longer obligated to uphold mine. For fifty-one years I have protected this clan. Deny me what I ask for now, and I will protect you no longer."

A smile of empty triumph split open Roshan's face. "You're bluffing, demon," he said. "We all know you can't leave the circle. Talk all you want, but you already admitted you can't hurt us."

"You're right," said Desiderata with a sigh and an exaggerated shrug. Solas's skin crawled. These were the words of a demon whose power was anything but limited. He reached across the Veil again, making sure that at least one of his meager assortment of spells would be close to hand if he needed it. He sensed that Zula was doing the same. "There's nothing I can do from inside this circle. It's a good thing, then, that I have plenty of friends outside of it."

Desiderata chuckled as it perched on the edge of the altar, crossing its legs at the knee. One foot swung rapidly and rhythmically back and forth, as if marking the tempo of a tune no one else could hear. "Wait for it," the demon said. The drums had fallen silent in the crater below. In another life, Solas could have ripped this pathetic, self-important creature apart at the instant it so much as hinted at an intent to harm the People. Now he was as helpless as any of these foolish elves who had summoned it in the first place. But nothing was happening. Could it be that Desiderata had no plan beyond trying to provoke Clan Vunlanaris into an error?

Then he heard the screams rising up from the encampment.

Solas peered down the slope. Hot new fires were beginning to burn throughout the camp. The crater echoed with the bellows of so-called rage demons and the shrieks of spirits of despair and the cries of the unsuspecting clan. He should have thought of this before. A creature like Desiderata undoubtedly commanded some respect among lesser spirits, and could persuade them to do its bidding. The weakness in the Veil that he had noted earlier, together with the destabilizing influence provoked by a ritual of sacrifice, had allowed the desire demon's minions to force their way through it. Without physical forms, none of them could spend much time outside of the Fade, but they would not need it. Clan Vunlanaris had been completely unprepared for their attack. The spirits' victory would likely be swift and total.

Roshan let out a Dalish war cry and charged toward the besieged village, his staff alight with crackling flame. His first instinct was admirable: help the clan now, and leave Desiderata trapped in the circle to be dealt with later. But Tarasha's death and the other demons' ambush had thrown the warriors' communication into total disarray. Many of the warriors followed Roshan unquestioningly, but others seemed not to understand his plan and remained at the ritual site. One of the elves who had stayed behind fixed her gaze on Desiderata and lowered her sword in front of her like a lance. "Don't!" Solas shouted, but the warrior did not listen. Blinded by rage, she threw herself at the demon. The sand scattered where her foot touched the circle's outline, leaving a gap a few inches wide.

It was enough. Desiderata darted toward the opening in a blur of motion. A strangled scream, a spray of crimson, and the foolish elf crumpled to the ground. The demon was soaring toward the village now, a smear of bright purple glowing angrily against the night. The surviving warriors ran after it, but it was far too late for them to correct their deadly miscalculations. Zula gave chase as well, wreathed in a nimbus of power as she summoned her magic to her, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Solas looked briefly at the massacre below, then back to the broken circle. Ever was cowering behind a boulder, Davhalla's face buried in his chest, his body wrapped around hers as if it would be enough to shield her from all the horrors yet to come. They had come here to rescue Zula from the demon, and they had succeeded. The rest of it was not, and never had been, Solas's problem. If he wanted to, he could walk away right now. To do so would undoubtedly be the wisest choice he could make.

But he watched Zula disappearing into the darkness, running headlong toward her own death, and he knew he was not finished here yet.

He approached the altar, not looking too closely at the mutilated corpses, and picked up Keeper Tarasha's staff from where it had fallen next to her body. It was not the sort of weapon he would have designed for himself, but if nothing else it would lend his few sad spells more potency than before. It would have to do. Ever was picking himself up with Davhalla still clinging to him. "What are you doing, Solas?" he asked, sounding dazed and overwhelmed.

Solas pointed toward Zula's retreating back. He still was not entirely sure what value Ever and Davhalla might bring to this endeavor, but the settlement was no longer safe for anyone, and anything had to be better than braving the wilderness alone. "Saving her life. Are you with me?"

"Yes."

With Ever carrying Davhalla, they ran down the inner slope of the crater toward the camp. They made the descent with terrifying speed, always one false step away from a terrible fall. When the rock flattened out, Solas shouted over the increasing din of battle, "Stop! Zula! Wait!" She slowed and turned back in confusion. He hurried up to her, speaking rapidly in Elvhen without really caring whether Ever understood. "What are you doing?"

"Killing the thing that killed Keeper Tarasha," Zula said through clenched teeth.

"Don't. It is stronger than you. You will fail."

"My clan is dying. Either help me or get out of my way, flat-ear." She spoke with false bravado, and the terror in her eyes told him that she knew he was right.

"Your clan was already dead long before tonight. Their fate was sealed the moment Tarasha made her deal. You cannot save them now. But you can save yourself."

Zula's staff trembled in her hands. "I won't abandon them."

"You do not have to." Solas let all of the fear, concern, and desperation he felt come through in his shaking voice. Desiderata had somehow recognized him, and as soon as she lost interest in Clan Vunlanaris he knew she would turn her attention back to him. If he did not escape now, he would die at the demon's hands. That meant fleeing into the Frostback Mountains, and in order to survive the journey he needed Zula's magic and her knowledge of the area. "I will not forget what happened here. Nor will you. Leave with us and live, Zula. Leave, and remember, and I swear to you that when the time is right I will help you have your revenge on Desiderata."

She hesitated, but he could see by the way she leaned toward him that she had already made her decision. "I'll hold you to your promise, stranger." She held up one hand in front of her face and traced complex Dalish symbols in the air to seal the vow. Solas had no idea how to respond.

Ever saved him the trouble of figuring it out. "I'm going to assume something good just happened," he said in the trade tongue. "Now tell me how we get out of here."

Zula collected her thoughts, then responded in the same language. "There is a cave to the south of here - a passage through which lava once flowed. It was a secret, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. It leads out of the crater. Follow me."

Solas, Ever, and Davhalla gladly obeyed. But they had only made it a few hundred paces toward their escape route when Ever broke off from the group, whispering, "Wait, wait." They were passing a cluster of tents around an aravel freshly painted with dripping arterial red. Several charred, smoldering corpses lay beside its splintered wheels. Ever sidestepped the carnage and matter-of-factly broke down one of the tents. He folded the stakes and ropes inside the canvas and shoved the whole thing into an empty sack. Then he began to gather up whatever he could grab from around the dimming campfire: clothing, tools, knives, waterskins, blankets, furs, food, even a bow and a quiver packed full of arrows.

"Do we have time for this?" asked Solas.

"We don't have time _not_ to do it," Ever replied. He jerked his thumb toward the dead elves. "They're not using this stuff again. If we try to cross those mountains without supplies, we're as good as dead already." No one could argue otherwise, and Solas, Zula, and Davhalla joined him in hastily assembling their packs.

They finished stripping the campsite of anything useful and portable amongst its contents, and Zula resumed leading them toward the tunnel. Once again, they did not get far before they were interrupted. Solas heard a commotion amidst the sparse trees on their left, and turned to see a rage demon skidding out of the brush and into their path. The spirit's attention was fixed not on them, but on Athras, who was lunging out after it. He had traded his ceremonial spear for a massive two-handed sword. He swung it in clumsy arcs which his foe easily evaded. By the warm red glow of the demon's own molten form, Solas could see that its claws had opened a long deep slash that stretched across Athras's chest from shoulder to hip. The wound scarcely bled; the demon's fiery claws must have cauterized it even as they created it. It still must have been agonizing, and it was clearly limiting Athras's movements. This was a fight he was unlikely to win.

In the time it took Solas to scrutinize the scene, Zula had already prepared her first spell. A bolt of lightning hurtled from the end of her staff and struck the rage demon with a loud crack and a smell of ozone. As the demon began to shift toward Zula, Solas aimed the Keeper's staff at its center mass and unleashed another icy blast, noting with satisfaction how much more precise and potent the weapon had made his spells. His attack froze the rage demon where it stood, and this time Athras was there to take advantage of it. He slammed the blade of his sword down into the demon's head, and it shattered into millions of melting shards.

Athras staggered toward Zula and said in Elvhen, "Thank the gods you're alive. We need to stop these things." His gaze flickered toward the chaos and death filling the village behind him. _He left the others at the ritual because he knew this might happen,_ Solas realized. Athras wanted to save the clan, but it was much too late. He could not be permitted to talk Zula into staying and fighting. If he did, they would all die along with the rest of Vunlanaris.

"An admirable instinct," said Solas, "but saving the rest of your clan is now impossible."

Athras glowered. "No one asked you."

"But he's right," said Zula. Her eyebrows drew together in a pained expression as she rested one hand on Athras's forearm. "We can't defeat them. Not now. Not like this. Don't throw away your life here, Athras. Come with me and live, and help me avenge them. Please."

A despair demon keened somewhere nearby, and an explosion of blue magic lit up the night. Ever cringed and said in the trade tongue, "All right, I don't understand what any of you are saying, but we need to stop debating it and leave _now_!"

Zula nodded and took off running again. Solas, Ever, and Davhalla stayed as close to her as they could. Athras paused for only a moment before he followed as well. Perhaps he had always known his fight was futile and he had only needed an excuse to give it up.

Solas could see the tunnel's partially concealed opening now, a dark throat waiting to swallow him and carry him once again into the unknown. Zula pulled aside the fallen branches covering it and gestured for the others to enter it. No demons saw them go. But as they disappeared one by one into the tunnel's jagged mouth, he thought he heard Desiderata's voice echoing off the walls of the crater. "Clan Vunlanaris! Deny me as long as you are able. But I will hunt you to the ends of earth until I get what you promised me."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and his companions weigh their options.

The five elves who had escaped the massacre of Clan Vunlanaris fled through the night without stopping. They carried all of their worldly possessions on their backs, and carried Davhalla too when the child grew too exhausted to keep running. The tunnel leading away from the village terminated near the base of the volcano. They emerged from it into a field of jagged igneous rocks that gradually gave way to concealing, primeval forest. Picking out their pathway in the dark amidst the steep hills, loose stones, and deep snowdrifts consumed all of their attention and precluded any conversation. When the rising sun began to bathe the terrain in pale grey light, Solas looked back and saw that the rim and walls of the volcanic cone that obscured the camp had all but disappeared behind the tall, snow-covered fir trees. "Stop," he called out in the common tongue. "Let's rest. The demons can't follow us here."

"How can you be sure?" asked Athras in Elvhen as he slowed his pace.

"It would be best to converse in the language we all speak," said Solas. In truth, he preferred Elvhen too, but to use it would only serve to isolate Ever. He could not afford the resentment and disunity such a slight would surely bring if he were to rely on the others for survival.

 _Thank you_ , Ever mouthed to him.

Athras scowled, but when he spoke again it was in the trade tongue. There was a sibilant, rising lilt to his thick and halting speech, which Solas had come to think of as the Dalish accent. "Fine. I'll grunt like the _shemlen_ if I must."

" _Ma serannas,_ " said Solas. "To answer your question, none of the spirits we saw last night had a body. Without one, they can only remain on this side of the Veil for brief periods before they are pulled back into the Fade. Based upon what I observed of their capabilities, none of them, not even Desiderata, are strong enough to remain outside the Fade for this long." He did not mention the dozens of corpses that were now no doubt available to the spirits. The lesser demons would pose no real threat as animated skeletons of limited intelligence as long as the group did not return to disturb their territory, and he was fairly certain Desiderata would settle for nothing but a living mage in the end. Moreover, if he reminded the others of the indignities currently being visited upon the bodies of their loved ones, there was a good chance it would inspire them to do something foolish, like trying to return to the village to lay the dead to rest.

"How do you know so much about demons?" asked Athras, narrowing his eyes.

Had the Dalish forgotten so much of themselves that knowing even the most basic information about spirits was regarded as suspicious? Solas took a harsher tone than he had intended, revealing too much of how thoroughly he was taken aback. "I am a mage. I have studied the Fade and spirits in great detail. I am well aware of their capabilities."

"I'm not a mage, but I heard that thing as well as anyone," said Athras. "It isn't going to stop hunting us. It will surely possess someone in the short term if it must."

"Then we need to get moving again," Ever said, his fearful gaze darting around the woods.

"I agree with the mage," said Zula, in a soft yet insistent tone that drew everyone's attention.

"My name is Solas," he said into the hush that followed.

" _Tuelanen i'na_ ," she replied, reflexively. "We should rest and consider our next move. Besides, Athras, there are questions I need to ask you before we continue."

Nearby they found a toppled tree, its half-rotten trunk offering shelter from the wind. They burrowed beneath it and gathered enough fallen branches to allow Zula to ignite a fire with a trickle of magic from her fingers. Davhalla had grabbed a small iron cookpot on her way out of camp, and had even managed to fill it almost to the brim with dried meat and shriveled root vegetables. She distributed the food to the others with a distant, haunted expression on her face. Ever took out all the waterskins, packed them with snow, and positioned them around the fire to allow their contents to melt.

Athras winced as he sat down beside the fire. The deep, ragged gash across his torso looked even more vicious by morning's light. "Let me help you," Zula said to him in Elvhen. She crawled over to him, helped him to take off his tattered shirt, and pressed both of her hands against his chest. Healing magic flowed steadily from the Fade and into Athras. Solas dug through his pack until he found the bandages and the pot of elfroot ointment he remembered grabbing out of the aravel the night before and handed them to Zula. She salved the edges of the wound, which were already beginning to smooth over and draw together, then bandaged it. When Athras had finished putting his shirt back on, she tipped her head up to stare into his eyes. "You didn't seem surprised by anything that happened at the ritual last night. You need to tell us everything you know." She used the trade tongue again, sending a clear message: _This knowledge is for everyone._

Athras hesitated for only a moment before he began to speak, stumbling over his phrasing as he struggled to make his tale understood in a language other than Elvhen. "Many years ago, Clan Vunlanaris had a warlike, short-sighted fool for its _Amelan_. He thought of nothing but how humans might harm the clan. Often he fancied that the _shemlen_ were about to attack. He would send raiding parties to their settlements, even though our people were always outnumbered. Too many elves died for his mad quests. Did you ever wonder why Vunlanaris settled in the crater, where there was no water, no game? It was his doing. When the best of his warriors had all fallen in battle and he could make war no longer, he insisted upon moving the clan to the most defensible location he could find, no matter the risk of starvation. When the clan reached the crater, he even slaughtered all the halla to make it harder to retreat. Our last stand against the _shemlen_ , he called it - as if any of them would dare to follow us here!

"Tarasha was _Sael_ in those days - a young woman, just initiated. She tried everything to make him see reason, but he would not change his ways. He was a powerful mage, surrounded by loyal sycophants who had followed him into madness. At last, with the clan on the brink of extinction, Tarasha was forced to take extreme measures."

"She summoned Desiderata and made a deal," said Zula flatly.

Athras nodded. "She begged for help from any spirits that would listen. The demon was the only one to answer her. Desiderata became the guardian of Clan Vunlanaris. It worked from the shadows to defend us from our enemies, and concealed us from those who would do us harm. No matter how difficult things became, the demon ensured we would always find the resources we needed. In exchange, all we had to do was pay it tribute."

"You sacrificed elves from your clan to that thing?" said Ever, with disgust.

"Not as many as you might imagine," said Athras. "The _Amelan_ and his allies were the first - not just to seal the bargain, but to clear a path for Tarasha to take his place and guide us through what needed to be done. Then one elf from the clan every seven years. Living bodies, to be used as the demon pleased. It preferred mages and the young, when we could spare them."

Ever's fists were balled at his sides. "Is that why you were keeping Solas and me around? Were we your next sacrifices? Was Davhalla?"

"Never Davhalla," Athras said sharply. "But you and Solas were one possible backup plan."

With an incoherent cry, Ever began to clamber up out of the snow, trembling with impotent rage. Solas guided him back down to the ground. "Calm yourself, Ever. We are both still alive, and I suspect there is more to this story."

"You're right to be angry," said Athras. "We went too far. We've known it for a long time. The _Tuelanen_ will judge us harshly in the Beyond. That is why we stayed in the crater, even after the _Amelan_ who had brought us there was dead. Why sacrifice our safety when we knew we would always be provided for? And if we got too close to other Dalish clans, they would surely turn on us if they learned what Tarasha had done."

"Did everyone in the clan know about this?" asked Ever through clenched teeth.

Athras shook his head. "Only Tarasha, Roshan, and the warriors you saw at the circle. We are the descendants of the elves who stood with Tarasha. My grandfather, Falon'Din rest him, was there on the night Desiderata was first summoned. But to keep so great a secret for so long is all but impossible. Especially when the deal began to go sour."

"What do you mean, sour?"

"Desiderata said it had defended the clan for fifty-one years," said Solas. "Unless one of the previous sacrifices was late in coming, that means…"

"We were two years overdue," said Athras grimly. "As time went on, it got more difficult to find appropriate candidates. The clan was shrinking, and Desiderata's demands were becoming more specific. Much of Vunlanaris had begun to realize something was wrong."

"It would be difficult not to, when your clan lives a charmed life except for the part where every so often your friends and family members vanish without a trace," Ever muttered.

"If you must put it that way. Mages were especially at risk. As soon as anyone would show signs of magical skill, Desiderata would demand they be sacrificed. That's why the clan had no Second until Zula came along."

"You were dying out in spite of the demon's help," said Solas.

"Or perhaps because of it. Two dozen elves left for an _Arlathvhen_ and never came back. We think they knew or suspected our secret, and tried to claim sanctuary with other clans. Women avoided pregnancy lest their children be taken from them. Tarasha tried everything she could think of to keep us from losing more people. At first she planned to induct outsiders into the clan and then give them to the demon."

"What a kind way to help elves who only wanted safety," Ever said sarcastically.

"I said she planned it, not that it worked. Some months ago, she thought she had found a candidate - a mage fleeing unrest in the human lands. He said the Circle he lived in had voted to dissolve itself. But he discovered our secret within days of arriving, before most of the clan had the chance to meet him. He ran before he could be initiated." Athras stared directly at Solas as he spoke. A knot of terror tightened in Solas's belly as everything snapped into place. _The one who got away._ His body's previous inhabitant had understandably deserted Clan Vunlanaris when he had discovered what they planned to do to him. Then a man with the same face had returned to them months later, with a different name and no memory of their previous encounter. No wonder Tarasha and Roshan had reacted to him with such confusion and suspicion. What would they have done with him had the ritual he interrupted actually concluded as planned?

"When the Circle mage escaped, Tarasha's plans had to change," Athras continued. "She negotiated with Desiderata and arranged an end to the agreement. The clan would be released from its obligation of sacrifice, and Desiderata would be released from its obligation of protection - after it received the last clan member it was owed. But Desiderata drove a difficult bargain. It would accept only you as payment, Zula. You, and you alone."

Silence descended over the group. Zula was slumped against the trunk of the tree, wearing an expression of shock and disbelief. "So Tarasha lied to me from the start," she said, her voice shaking. "She only ever wanted me as the demon's vessel."

"That isn't true," Athras said firmly. He reached out and rested one of his hands on Zula's knee, anchoring her in the present moment just as she had anchored him during their escape from the camp. "She spoke of you with great respect. She called you the future of the clan. She tried everything she could think of to convince Desiderata to take someone else. But in the end, the demon would not be swayed. To save everyone else, she saw no other choice."

"Then she was an idiot as well as a coward," said Ever. "She made the bad deal in the first place. If she really cared so much about her clan, she should have made up for her mistakes by giving herself up."

"She did, at the end," murmured Zula, still sounding stunned.

"And before that, too," said Athras. "Desiderata never accepted her. It only wanted Zula."

"Ever is right," said Solas. He knew it would be more prudent to keep his opinions of Clan Vunlanaris to himself, but he was too appalled to hold his tongue. "Even if Tarasha tried to protect her clan, she was a fool to think Desiderata would not betray her in the end. All spirits are bound by their natures, and it is the nature of a desire demon never to be satisfied with that which it has already been given."

"You don't understand what this clan was like before," said Athras, simmering with barely contained rage. "I don't remember it, but my parents did - may Falon'Din guide their souls to the Beyond. I have no doubt that without Desiderata, Clan Vunlanaris would have perished fifty years ago. Tarasha did for her people what no one else had the nerve to do."

Solas could not muster the energy to continue the debate. He stared into the red-hot core of the fire, letting the sound of crackling twigs and the scent of its smoke fill his senses so he would not have to listen to his own despondent inner monologue. The others did much the same. "This argument is pointless," Zula said at last. "It doesn't matter whether Tarasha meant well, or whether she did the right thing. She's dead, and so is the rest of the clan."

A low, frightened whimper escaped from Davhalla's lips. It was the first sound the child had made since the night before. Ever wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a tight embrace, pressing her face into his chest so she would not see the fear in his own eyes.

"We can't go back to camp in case the demon is waiting for us there," Zula continued. "We can't stay in these mountains either, not in the middle of winter."

"Where else can we go?" asked Athras.

"South," said Zula, "and east. We get out of the Frostbacks and make for Ostagar. The _hahren_ in my alienage said Queen Anora granted those lands to the Dalish after Warden Mahariel died killing the Archdemon."

"That story is true," said Ever. "One of the clans there would probably take us in, if we can make it to them alive. It's a good idea." Davhalla nodded in agreement.

"What about Desiderata?" said Athras. "It said it would follow us."

"Ostagar is a long way from here," said Zula. "It may lose track of us, or lose interest. We can make our stand there, with other elves beside us, if we must. Do you have a better plan?"

Athras glanced up at the walls of the volcano, clearly reluctant to leave the lands where he must have spent his whole life before now. But he also must have understood that there was nothing left here for him to abandon. He swallowed hard and said, "I'll do it."

Zula looked at Solas with weary determination. "What about you?"

They all knew he had little choice. Ostagar could not have been farther from the places to which all of his earlier spells had been so carefully constructed to attract Corypheus and his orb. He hated everything about this distraction and the damage it was certain to do to his plans. But alone, he was sure to die in the wilderness, and if he lost this body he would be trapped in the Fade, unable to change anything. He needed to survive. Everything else was secondary now. He took a deep breath, swallowed his pride. "Where you go, I will go. Lead the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases outside the usual ones, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Tuelanen i'na. = Creators be with you. (used here in the sense of a formal "pleased to meet you" introduction)  
> Amelan = Keeper  
> Sael = First  
> Tuelanen = the Elvhen Creators


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and his companions struggle for survival.

Athras led the group a little farther into the woods, to a cave where hunters from Clan Vunlanaris used to camp during overnight excursions. He uncovered its concealed entrance and directed the others to go inside and gather any useful supplies they could find there. The clan, after all, would not be needing them anymore.

Zula took charge from there. As Second, it was in her nature. When she suggested that the party remain in the cave overnight to prepare for the journey ahead, Solas did not object. Not only was he exhausted and grateful for the respite, but the memory of his trouble with Clan Sou'adahlen made him reluctant to express too many strong opinions. But Athras shook his head disapprovingly, and Ever asked, "What if the demon figures out we're here?"

"It won't, as long as we keep silent," said Zula. " _Vir Assan._ "

"You know they don't teach that in the city," muttered Ever, but he stayed with the group.

After a few fitful hours of much-needed sleep, they spent the rest of the day going through their hastily gathered supplies and reassembling their packs, removing unnecessary items and replacing them with more useful ones that the hunters had left behind. Among their new tools were supplies for trapping. Solas dredged up long-neglected skills to set a snare that fortuitously caught a rabbit. Ever volunteered to go out hunting with the bow and arrows he had taken from the village. He returned to the cave just before dusk with his arms full of the carcasses of small furry mammals and ground-dwelling birds. They cooked some of the meat into a stew and charred the rest in the coals of the fire in an attempt to preserve it for the journey. Solas tried not to dwell upon how meager the portions were, or how hollow his stomach still felt even after he had eaten his share of the meal.

Zula spent most of her time working her limited yet persistent healing magic on Athras's injuries. When she was not with him she sat at the mouth of the cave, tending the fire and staring out into the forest. Now Solas began to understand the unstated purpose behind this brief pause. She was waiting for stragglers from the village, in the unlikely event that there had been any other survivors. But the night passed and the sun rose and no other elves appeared, and Zula seemed to accept with a sort of wistful stoicism that they were, in fact, alone. "We should move on," she said as they broke their fast on stale biscuits and the thick, sludgy remnants of the stew, and no one contradicted her.

They shouldered their packs and set out into the wilderness, making their slow and steady descent out of the Frostbacks and toward Ostagar. Hours stretched into days, and days into weeks, and little by little the party of elves fell into a routine. They woke with the sun each morning, all five of them wedged into the single threadbare tent they had managed to bring along, and prepared a simple, cold breakfast around the embers of the previous night's fire before they departed. Around midmorning they rested, ate a few handfuls of carefully hoarded jerky or nuts or dried fruit, and drank from the waterskins they always carried against their bodies to keep the liquid within from freezing solid. By midafternoon they stopped; the days were short, and journeying through the dark posed far too many hazards. Yet even these relatively brief intervals of travel left all of them exhausted when they were done.

Their pace was measured at best, torturously slow at worst. The air was thin, the incline of the slopes steep, the snow deep. Worse, at this elevation the weather was capricious and unpredictable. More than once, a snowstorm blew in without warning and sent them scrambling for shelter with all thought of forward progress temporarily abandoned. They spent one particularly long and terrifying night huddled together in the tent as a blizzard howled around them, until the winds finally calmed and the sun rose anew and they dug their way out to emerge into a blinding field of unbroken white that stretched around them in all directions.

The cold permeated everything, ceaseless and unyielding, a great oppressive force from which there was no escape. It could be chased away for a time, but never fully conquered. Solas could forget it as long as he kept moving, exertion warming his body until he could throw back the bloodstained woolen cloak he had taken from the village and feel the brisk breeze drying the sweat on his clammy skin. But each night as he warmed his feet by the fire, he was alarmed by the tingling pain in his faintly blue toes as he rubbed life back into them, by the cuts and blisters he hadn't even felt as he hiked. Many mornings he woke curled up in his bedroll, his body heavy and torpid, his belly gnawingly empty, and wondered where he would find the strength to stand up. At the end of the day, all that awaited him was more cold, more exhaustion, more hunger. It seemed impossible to bear. Yet each time he remembered his duty and somehow summoned the will to go on. He had to, for the sake of the broken world that no one else could fix.

As the elves traveled, either Solas or Zula took the lead, using their staves to test the ground ahead of them lest they tumble into a hidden crevasse. Sometimes Ever tried to entertain everyone with wildly embellished tales of his adventures in Jader, or Athras stumbled through half-remembered Dalish fables at Davhalla's urging. But most of the time they traveled in silence, each one of them lost in their own separate thoughts. Solas's were mainly consumed with worry. At the group's current rate of progress, he doubted they would reach Ostagar before early summer. Surely Corypheus would make his move before then, with Solas too far away to intervene and take back what was rightfully his. Even so, to travel alone in this unforgiving wilderness would be suicide. For now, he would do what he must to survive, and determine his next move once he reached less hazardous terrain.

Each day when the sun passed its zenith, the party sought out a suitable place to make camp. On rare occasions they found an empty cave to shelter them, or a downed tree trunk that created a convenient lean-to. More often than not, all they found was a spot flat enough to dig out a windbreak and pitch their tent against it. When they had chosen their site, Zula used magic to kindle a fire and set simple protective wards around the area. Ever and Athras took to hunting together - Ever with the bow, Athras setting snares - and on most nights they came back with at least a small amount of game. Davhalla proved surprisingly skilled at foraging, and every afternoon she wandered away from camp and returned at dusk with her skirts full of nuts and winter berries and edible plants hardy enough to survive the bitter cold. That left Solas and Zula to keep the fire going, to prepare the food, to mend cloaks and blankets, to melt snow for water, and to perform all of the other unending tasks that ensured the group's survival.

During these long hours spent alone together, Zula made few overtures of friendship toward Solas. He had not saved her from Desiderata with the expectation that it would inspire any great affection toward him, but he did not know what to make of her distant, somewhat frosty politeness. One day, as they shoveled snow into the melt bag near the fire, his curiosity got the better of him. "I've never met an elf named Zula before," he said in Elvhen. "It isn't a Dalish name, is it?"

"I've never met an elf named Solas before," she responded in the same tongue. "What sort of parents would name their child such a thing?"

"It was not precisely my parents who named me."

"Ah. You're a self-made man, then."

"After a fashion."

"You don't seem to want to elaborate on that, Solas." Her meaning was clear: _Then you must understand why I don't want to have this conversation with you._

"I am sorry." He paused until Zula turned toward him, her expression unreadable. In the deepening golden light he realized for the first time that her eyes were very green. "I can tell I have offended you. I shouldn't have pried. It's only...I know nothing else about you beyond your name, and I'm tired of traveling with strangers. I didn't know where else to begin."

"Apology accepted," she said softly. "If you must know, my parents wanted to give me a name that sounded Elvhen, though they didn't speak the language. Their success was questionable."

"Perhaps they were thinking of Sulahn?"

"If they were, they should have chosen a different word. I can't carry a tune in a bucket."

He laughed, and Zula smiled faintly back. Before he could say more, Ever and Athras returned with a few snofleur for the stew pot, and the time for idle conversation vanished. But from then on, he sensed a gradual thawing in Zula's manner toward him. He hoped her increasing comfort with him might eventually point the way toward greater understanding. He didn't know why, but he wanted to get to the heart of the sadness he often sensed behind her serious, reserved nature, to learn what passions drove this self-possessed, determined young woman whom he had chosen to follow.

A few days later they came to a mountain stream, its turbulent wildness frozen into a rough cascade of ice. Zula approached the banks and studied its course as intently as a scholar poring over an ancient text. "I've followed this river before," she said. "It flows into Lake Calenhad. It will lead us to the Imperial Highway."

No one objected to this plan, since walking upon the river's frozen surface proved much easier than trudging through snow. On their second night beside the river, they camped on the banks of a small, deep pond at the base of a waterfall. After the tent was pitched and the campsite put in order, Zula pulled a few long silken threads free from the embroidery on her skirt and bent two of her rings into crude hooks. "Davhalla, mind the fire," she said. "I'm going fishing."

"May I come with you?" Solas asked. He was pleased when she nodded in agreement.

Solas and Zula walked out onto the frozen pond together and squatted on the ice near the place where the stream emptied into it from above. A tongue of flame sprang from Zula's index finger. She touched it to the ice and traced a blazing circle there. Its center rapidly melted to reveal the frigid water below. They each attached a hook to a length of thread and wound the other end loosely around their fingers. For bait they used offal from a skinny, gamey squirrel that Ever had shot earlier in the day. Then they dropped their lines through the hole in the ice and waited.

They had caught three small silvery fish between them before Zula spoke. "I never thanked you for saving me from Desiderata. But I'm grateful. You risked your life to help me. I know I wouldn't be alive today without you."

"I only did what was right," Solas said, strangely relieved to note that Elvhen seemed to have become the preferred language between them.

"Perhaps, but no one else was willing to do it." Her line twitched, and she pulled another fish out of the stream. Matter-of-factly she dropped it on the ice, far enough away from the hole to keep it from flopping back into the water as it suffocated. "How did you know I was in danger?"

"I had already fallen asleep, and as I dreamed I sensed a disturbance in the Fade. I investigated and saw your distress at the ritual site. Once I knew what was going on, I could not stand by and let it happen."

"You're a Dreamer?" asked Zula as she baited her hook again.

"You sound surprised. As a mage, couldn't you do the same?"

"Probably. I've never really tried. Tarasha said there were more important things for me to learn." She dropped her line through the hole in the ice again. "Few mages focus on developing such skills, as far as I know. Where did you learn them?"

"Largely, I am self-taught. I came to my magic late in life, and left my village looking for a mentor. I found Clan Vunlanaris instead." It would never cease to amaze him how the mages of this age had feared spirits so much that they had turned their backs on the wisdom of the Fade. He knew he had to get away from this topic or risk giving too much of himself away - or, perhaps worse, alienating her completely. "And yourself? Did you have any teachers before Tarasha?"

"A few apostates, here and there. Scrolls and books, when I could find them. But for the most part I'm like you - or I was before I found the Dalish. I learned what I could, where I could. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than the alternative."

"Which was?"

"The Kirkwall Circle," she said, staring down into the dark water. Solas suppressed a shudder. Though his survey of Circle mage society upon his awakening had been necessarily limited, he, like almost everyone in Thedas, knew that Kirkwall's Circle had been uncommonly cruel to its mages before it became an early casualty of the so-called mage-templar war. "I grew up in the Kirkwall alienage. When my gifts first became evident, everyone knew an elven mage stood no chance under Meredith and Orsino. So my family and neighbors pooled every coin they had to buy me passage across the Waking Sea. They figured I'd be safer in Ferelden even if I was alone."

"How old were you?"

"When my powers manifested I was twelve. It took me years to find Clan Vunlanaris. Years more to earn their trust." Zula's fishing line twitched in her hand. She struggled against whatever was on the other end until she pulled the empty hook free. "Shit. I'm out of bait. Let's go back."

Solas and Zula gathered up the four dead fish and carried them back to the camp. "Why did you choose the Dalish?" he asked her as they laid their catch down in the snow to clean it.

"Despite their reputation, of everyone I met in my travels they were the fastest to accept me," said Zula as she scraped away scales with the flat of her knife. Now that she had opened up to him, she seemed unable to stop talking. Perhaps she was as desperate for companionship as he had been. "Most people don't want anything to do with a mage, especially an apostate. At least the Dalish valued who I was and what I could do, and I never had to hide my magic around them. Although now I'll always wonder if they only ever took me in to be their sacrifice."

"Athras seemed to think otherwise. But if they did, they were fools and the loss is theirs alone."

"That's kind of you to say, Solas, but I'm not convinced it's true." Zula fell silent for a while, her blade rasping rhythmically. "Why didn't you go to the Dalish before this? Was it just because you couldn't find them?"

"No. I chose the life of the lone apostate."

"Why?"

"For the sake of my freedom, of course."

"Sounds lonely and dangerous to me. Perhaps you don't mind wandering the wilderness alone, but I think freedom is worthless if you don't survive to enjoy it. That's not to say I'd choose a Circle either - but I do want community. Do you think you might ever give the Dalish a chance, after we reach Ostagar?"

"No. I would not wish to worship your gods, or be burdened by your traditions." Solas sighed, balancing with difficulty on the line between making his total refusal clear and trying not to offend her anew. "There are many things the Dalish do that are...erroneous."

"You don't know us, Solas. You said as much yourself. We may not be perfect, but the Dalish are the family I chose. And when someone is your family, there are things you can excuse for the sake of love." She impaled the gutted fish on a sharp stick and thrust it into the fire to cook, and said no more. 

They spent another day following the river before they were forced to alter their route. The frozen rapids had become too treacherous to walk on, and the rocky banks on either side further impeded their progress. So they turned temporarily inland toward more even ground, which led them to an unexpected windfall. Partway through the day's travels, Solas scented sulphur on the breeze. As the party crested a small hill, they came upon a series of small ponds nestled amidst a cluster of rock formations, improbably unfrozen and steaming in the cold air. "Hot springs!" shouted Davhalla with infectious enthusiasm.

The party quickly agreed to stop for the day and to take full advantage of a rare opportunity to get clean and warm. They made camp nearby and rushed to the springs. There, they stripped off their filthy clothing, scrubbed it in one of the pools, and hung it near the fire to dry. Then they soaked in the other pools for as long as they could stand it, delighting in the warmth of the water until their fingers and toes were wrinkled and their cheeks were pink with the heat. For the first time in weeks Solas let himself relax and revel in the long-denied simple pleasure of a warm bath and a clean body. He knew that the others must have felt the same.

But the afternoon's peace would not last for long. In the middle of the night, as everyone lay packed inside the tent, Davhalla woke screaming and thrashing in the grip of a nightmare. Groggily, the adults rose to comfort her, wrapping her in blankets and taking her out into the fresh air until she came back to herself. "The Keeper's head came off," she gasped out between body-wracking sobs, "and it rolled down into the camp. It rolled past First Roshan and the warleader and the _hahren_ and my parents and my brothers and all of you. And it was spraying blood and everyone the blood touched turned into blood too."

Solas did not have the faintest idea of how to comfort a traumatized child. He stood at the entrance to the tent and watched as Davhalla wept into Ever's chest and Athras and Zula took turns murmuring soothing nonsense to her. Eventually he realized that his presence did not seem to be required, so he went back into the tent and laid awake, staring up into the worn canvas ceiling that veiled the stars from view. Some time later, Ever entered with Davhalla in his arms and bedded down beside her, embracing her as if to shield her from her own imagination. Her whimpers subsided into sniffles, then into calm and steady breathing, and she and Ever both fell asleep once more.

Athras and Zula, however, remained beside the embers of the dying fire, wrapped together in a single large fur and speaking in low voices. He caught snatches of their conversation - a strangled sob from one of them, Zula saying "I can't believe we're the only ones left" - and did his best to ignore it. He could not afford to become distracted by the tribulations of these elves. They weren't real. They didn't matter. When he came into his power they would all melt away like snowflakes alighting on his bare skin. They and all of their concerns would soon be swept aside to make way for all that was to come. So why did a part of him still yearn to whisper reassuring lies to Davhalla, to sit at the hearth with his companions as they grieved all that they had lost?

Solas forced himself to push aside his troubled thoughts and sleep. But even in the Fade he found himself drawn to Athras and Zula. His consciousness skimmed the Veil, following in their footsteps as they tiptoed hand in hand back toward the hot springs. He watched as they took off each other's just-washed clothing, as they eased into the steaming waters, as their lips met, as their bodies began to move together in a rhythm as ancient as time itself. Ashamed to have seen even that much, he turned away in search of deeper dreams. _Let them find solace in each other while they can,_ he thought. _If only it could be so easy for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be creepy, Solas.
> 
> Translations of Elvhen phrases outside the usual ones, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Vir Assan = "Way of the Arrow," a Dalish philosophical concept concerned with swift, silent, and decisive hunting.  
> sulahn = song, music


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas becomes involved in a philosophical debate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally pushed the wrong button while editing, so have an update a day early, I guess! /facepalm

The next morning dawned with a curious emptiness, as if the intense emotion of the previous night had purged everything and everyone in its wake. Athras and Zula emerged from the tent with the others, apparently having returned stealthily enough from the hot springs to avoid waking anyone. They helped break camp with wordless efficiency and gave no indication that anything had changed between them. Perhaps it had not. Davhalla was also calmer and less troubled by the memory of her nightmare by the light of day, though she still followed Ever from place to place like a slight dark-haired shadow.

As Ever took down the tent, Davhalla squatted next to the extinguished campfire and ran her hands across the dormant coals. When she tired of tracing circles and curlicues in the snow, she dipped one finger into the blackest ash at the center of the fire ring and drew thick, swirling dark lines on her face, encircling her left eye and trailing down her cheek. "When I grow up I'll get my _vallaslin_ for Sylaise Hearthkeeper," she said to no one in particular, sounding very satisfied with herself. Then she frowned as if thinking better of it, gathered a handful of snow, and scrubbed the false tattoo away, leaving faint smears of grey on her cold-pinkened skin. She ran her finger through the ashes again, then sketched a more extensive design of crude wiggly branches forking out across her temples and her brow. "No, maybe Mythal instead. Like _Mamae_ had."

" _Da'len,_ you must never let anyone do that to you," Solas said quietly, using Elvhen just as she had. After so long spent holding his tongue as the survivors of Clan Vunlanaris blundered through their mangled and misremembered traditions, he had hoped he might yet make it to Ostagar without causing a scene. But the thought of this innocent, well-meaning child graciously accepting the symbols of slavery in a misbegotten tribute to her late mother would not permit him to stay silent. "There are better ways to honor your parents."

Davhalla frowned in confusion. "But why not? It's what they always said I would do when I was grown. Keeper Tarasha said I would, too."

"You are free to make your own choices in life, _da'len_. You do not have to do anything simply because another person tells you to do it."

Her eyes widened. "Not even you?"

"Not even me," Solas agreed with a conspiratorial smile.

Davhalla appeared contented with this answer until a rogue thought crossed her mind and her eyebrows drew together in consternation. "But that means I don't have to listen to you either when you tell me I shouldn't get _vallaslin_."

"Indeed," he conceded. "It only means that if you get them, it should be because you have weighed the available evidence and then decided for yourself that it is the right course of action, not only because you are following another's orders."

"And what evidence is there to say she shouldn't?" asked Athras from the other side of the extinguished campfire. Solas had not realized that he had been listening.

Solas sighed. "Never mind."

Athras stalked closer. "No, tell us your insights, Solas. If you know so much, why not share it?"

Solas hesitated. _I should never have said anything to Davhalla, no matter how strongly I felt,_ he thought. In their present situation, all of the elves needed to be able to rely on each other, and unnecessary conflict might jeopardize the immediate and bone-deep trust their shared survival required. Yet Solas also understood that Athras had an eminently rational cause to regard him with suspicion, and that this encounter had been brewing for a long time. Perhaps both of them had been waiting for their opportunity to get the argument over with. Unspoken hurts had their own hazards.

Athras was already smirking. _If he thinks I have no answer, he's wrong._ "The _vallaslin_ do not mean what the Dalish think they do. Anyone who would take them has a right to know the facts before they make their decision. That is all."

"Are you Dalish?"

"You already know I am not."

"Then why should I listen to anything you have to say about the traditions of my people?"

"Because those who stop learning become stagnant and backwards. The past matters. History matters. And when we understand more about the true history of a thing, we should accept it and do better instead of clinging to our illusions."

"Sure, Solas. You always know best. You're so wise and open-minded, you'd tell a grieving child she's grieving wrong. But at least you got the last word in, and there's nothing more important than that, is there?" Athras had been walking as he talked, and now he stood only inches away, his fists clenched, his face tilted upwards to meet Solas's eyes with an enraged glare. Athras was tall for the elves of the age, but the top of his head still rose only to Solas's shoulder. "You're not one of us. You've made it clear you don't want to be. So you have no right to tell us how we Dalish should live our lives. As you've probably noticed, we don't take kindly to interference from outsiders."

"You should tell us what you know, Solas," said Zula. Both Athras and Solas turned toward her. Solas hadn't noticed her presence earlier. The discussion must increased in volume and vehemence to the point that it would have been difficult for her not to overhear it. She approached with a relaxed, open posture, and at first he thought she had come to make peace between them. But then he saw the focused determination in her eyes and realized that she, too, wanted to make her opinion known. "I want to hear it."

Athras scoffed. "That's pointless."

"I disagree," said Zula. "Solas is right about at least one thing: It's important to have all the facts." She looked at Solas with obvious curiosity. "Don't be cryptic. If there's something we should know, tell us."

"It doesn't matter right now," said Solas. "We should move on."

"You're the one who brought it up," Athras muttered.

"Very well. But I will remind you that you asked for this." Solas lowered his voice in the futile hope that it might soften the blow of what he was about to say. "Elvhenan was not as the Dalish believed it to be. Their civilization contained many wonders, but also great cruelty. Among their many faults was the practice of slavery. The nobles of Arlathan branded their slaves with the symbols that would survive as your _vallaslin_ , in tribute to the beings they believed to be gods."

"What do you mean, 'believed to be gods?'" asked Zula.

"The beings the Dalish worship are no more divine than I am. They were powerful mages, not unlike the magisters of Tevinter. Nothing more."

"You're lying," said Athras.

"I assure you I am not," said Solas.

"What if he isn't?" asked Zula. Her gaze had lost a bit of its focus and he could tell she was still considering what he had said, intently and thoroughly. "Solas, how do you know this?"

More so than ever before, this was a time to choose his words carefully. "As I told you, I am a student of history. I have glimpsed hidden truths in the deepest dreams of the Fade."

"Dreams," Athras said with a sneer. "I will not betray the traditions of my people because some flat-ear had a bad dream. Besides, what's done is done." He gestured to his face, its skin as much ink as bare flesh. "I made my choice to be true to _Vir Tanadahl_. But it seems you would not know what it is to keep faith with something greater than yourself, would you?"

Zula interrupted before Solas could say anything ill-advised. "We are the last of the Elvhenan," she said with a pointed glance at Athras, "and never again shall we submit."

"Your point being?" said Athras.

"I fail to see how it serves _Vir Tanadahl_ , or the Dalish as a whole, or anyone, to accept whatever we are told without thinking," said Zula. "We know perfectly well that much of Elvhenan has been lost or forgotten. We've had to reconstruct it from hints and fragments. We know our way of life is not an accurate recreation of Arlathan. If we got something wrong - even something so tremendous as this - doesn't it hurt us more to refuse to even consider it?"

"I can't believe you're taking his side," said Athras.

"I'm not," said Zula, and turned her attention to Solas. "What you don't understand is that the meaning of a thing can change. I assure you, no Keeper has ever applied _vallaslin_ to the face of an initiate to mark them as a slave. Do their intentions mean nothing? Or can it be that what you say was once a sign of bondage can be changed, reclaimed as a sign of what sets us apart from all others? Of the legacy that we have struggled to preserve against all odds?"

Athras interjected again. "But what he said about the Creators-"

"Is impossible to prove. They're locked away by Fen'Harel and we can't ask them who they were or what they meant. What we _can_ do is live up to the good we find in their teachings. If I find a sickly halla fawn that's lost its mother and nurse it back to health because I think it would please Ghilan'nain, does it matter if Ghilan'nain actually knows or cares what I have done? Or does it matter most that I healed a helpless animal that would otherwise have suffered and died?"

Zula's voice rose in passion and intensity as she spoke. Athras hung his head like a child who had just been scolded by his parents. _The Dalish life is all he's ever known,_ Solas realized, _but for her that isn't so._ Zula's childhood in the Kirkwall alienage and her long journey to Clan Vunlanaris had shown her many ways in which she could choose to spend her brief life. And yet, out of all of them, she had chosen the Dalish. He wanted to ask her why, but before he could speak, Ever called out to them from the other side of camp.

"I watched my mother burn to death," Ever said with forced cheerfulness as he walked briskly toward the others. His use of the trade tongue felt harsh and jarring to Solas after the earlier exchange of complex ideas in Elvhen. "And my sisters, and my nieces and nephews besides. The shems barred the door of our house and set fire to the roof. I would have been in there too, if I hadn't forgotten to buy bread for dinner and left to go back to the bakery. And if I hadn't been so good at running and hiding, I would have been cut down in the streets by whatever soldiers decided the alienage needed purging that day. Just like the baker, and the hahren, and the handsome blue-eyed man I was rather fond of." There was no joy behind his crooked smile. "So please believe me when I tell you that whoever was about to win whatever philosophical debate you were all involved in, I honestly and genuinely do not give a single fuck. I didn't come to the Dalish so someone could tell me how to be an elf the right way. I came here because it was the only way to do the only thing I care about anymore, which is surviving in this wilderness and getting somewhere safe where I can go on with my life. And I understand just enough Elvhen now to know that whatever you were talking about had nothing to do with any of that. So would you please all kindly shut the fuck up and do your jobs so we can get moving before we all freeze to death out here?"

Ever's words put an abrupt end to the discussion. Thoroughly cowed, Solas, Zula, and Athras helped finish packing up the camp. Solas knew he should not have allowed himself to be drawn into such an explosive discussion while he could ill afford to seem odd or untrustworthy - but he also knew he would have betrayed his own principles had he said nothing. Davhalla, for her part, seemed not to have been affected by anything that the adults had said. As they set out in the direction of the river, she softly hummed a tuneless Dalish melody as she gathered up fallen edible seeds with Mythal's false _vallaslin_ still ashen-grey upon her brow.

Solas allowed Zula to take the lead and drifted to the back of the group, lost in his own confused thoughts. After a while he realized that Athras had also slowed his pace. The two of them were walking abreast now, behind the rest of the group and out of earshot. Athras's jaw was clenched, and his hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword. "Are you a demon?" he whispered without preamble.

"I assure you that I am not," said Solas immediately, hoping the shock he felt did not show on his face. Yet even as he made the necessary and expected denial, some part of himself wondered, _Are you and a demon really so different in the end? You are a spirit animating a body that is not your own, and now you are trying to convince others to see the world in the same way as you. You will not even hesitate to lie to them to get what you want. Nor will you change your nature. What is that if not a demon?_ "Why would you ask me such a question?"

"Because you look just like the man we planned to sacrifice, but you are not him."

Playing at ignorance had not worked on Tarasha and Roshan. This time, Solas tried a different tactic. He shook his head and let a regretful grin steal across his lips. "What can I say, Athras? I hid my true self from you before. It was terribly embarrassing to have to crawl back to your clan for help after I ran away. I had to come up with a story fast and hope it would buy me time to figure something better out."

"Not possible," said Athras. "If you really were that man, you would remember that I guarded you day and night while the Keeper was figuring out how best to handle you. I got to know that flat-ear fairly well. He was arrogant and self-centered and cowardly, and he flirted with anything that had breasts. He was much better at magic than you. He did not speak a word of Elvhen. And he came up to about here on me." Athras held his hand flat and raised it to the level of his chest. "You are many things, Solas. But you are certainly not him. And I'm not going to leave you alone until you tell me who you really are."

 _I believe him. He won't let this go._ "I am your ally, Athras, for as long as it takes us to survive this wilderness and escape from Desiderata. Must you really know anything more about me?"

"Yes."

For once in his life, all of his lies and evasions had run out. _If I cannot avoid the inevitable any longer, then let me tell the truth and face the consequences._ "Very well. Then do not forget that you demanded this." He drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath. "If you must know, I am Fen'Harel, Lord of Tricksters, He Who Hunts Alone."

Athras stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Then, without warning, he burst out laughing. Zula looked briefly over her shoulder, perplexed by the outburst, but she carried on walking. "Very funny," Athras said. "You had me going for a minute, trickster."

"It's no jest, Athras. I am quite serious."

"Then you're insane." Shaking his head, Athras began to take long loping strides, trying to catch up to the others. "Let me know when you're ready to tell me the truth. Until then, I'll be watching you." He hurried ahead without another backward glance, leaving Solas alone with even more unanswered questions than before.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas sees the face of his enemy.

Days passed. The elves' journey wore on. Zula found a path that allowed them to return to the banks of the river, and they followed it once more out of the mountains. They spoke little, except to convey necessary information or to divide labor. No one seemed inclined toward another debate like the one about the _vallaslin_. Athras pointedly ignored Solas for the most part, and the others treated him with their usual distant politeness. _He must not have told anyone of my admission,_ Solas thought, _and why should he have, since he didn't believe me anyway? Somehow, I have made my secret safer by confessing it. It might even afford me more leeway now that Athras thinks me mad and not malevolent._

The terrain the elves traversed became steeper and craggier as the river descended inexorably toward Lake Calenhad. By the time that four days' travel separated the group from the hot springs, they had to walk on the frozen surface of the water if they wanted to make anything resembling progress. The farther they went, the more their circumstances and their surroundings began to feel like a cruel, clever trap. The course of the riverbed was as easy as ever to follow, but the banks on either side had steadily risen to become high, sheer cliffs towering over them. They were pinned into a deep, narrow canyon from which there was no easy escape. "I don't like this," Solas muttered as he tested the ice in front of them with his staff.

"I don't either," said Zula from behind. "But we need to keep moving." They all knew she was right. If they turned back to the place where they had entered the ravine they would lose the day's progress, and would have to spend just as long enclosed within the canyon on the way out. The weather still might turn deadly in an instant, and they had no time to waste. They had to move forward, to leave the Frostbacks at any cost. Solas began to look around for a cleft or a low spot, something they could follow away from the river and up onto the bluffs. If they could not find an exit, they would have to camp on the ice for the night, which would be uncomfortable and would leave them dangerously exposed. He shivered as a cold gust of wind blew down his collar. He hoped it would not come to that.

They were working their way through a series of rock-choked bends in the river when Solas first noticed the landslides. The first few times pebbles and gravel slid down the cliffsides and sprawled across the ice, it might have been coincidence. But when a sizable boulder tumbled into his path, landing close enough to him that he had to jump backwards to keep it from rolling over his feet, it seemed too direct to be an accident. He scanned the tops of the bluffs and saw nothing, but he thought he heard a low, threatening chuckle carried downward on the breeze. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

"Hear what?" said Ever.

Zula nodded. "Something isn't right."

"Should we turn back?" asked Davhalla, who was clinging to Ever.

"That would be unwise, _da'len_ ," said Athras. "If we try to-"

The rest of his words were drowned out by a tremendous clatter of falling rock. Solas looked behind him and saw the side of the cliff collapsing, slumping down across the river in a long rumbling cascade. The ice upon which he stood vibrated alarmingly. Delicate spiderwebs began to spread across its slick surface. "Back away," Ever said urgently, barely audible above the noise of the tumbling stones. Everybody scurried away from the disintegrating ice, finding spots on the river's rocky banks where they could crouch in relative safety. When the shaking around them subsided, an impassible wall of rubble cut off their only avenue of retreat.

Sardonic laughter drifted down once more from somewhere above. "One way out, Clan Vunlanaris," said a woman's throaty, teasing voice.

All of the elves recognized it at once. "Desiderata," said Zula. But Solas alone could tell that while the tone and manner of speaking was all Desiderata, the voice itself was different from the one he had heard in the summoning circle. Now it was filtered through the throat and mouth of the body the demon had borrowed. The demon had found a living host - and it was someone Solas had met before.

"It said it would hunt us," said Athras. "We need to get out of here fast." As if to underscore his words, a shower of fist-sized rocks bounced down the cliffside in front of them, cracked the ice where they landed, and sank quickly beneath the frigid water.

The elves moved deeper into the ravine, hugging the walls to avoid the increasingly cracked and unstable ice. Barrage after barrage of falling snow and stone followed in their wake. The attacks seemed deliberately targeted to frighten and startle them rather than to cause damage. Desiderata was taunting them, trying to provoke them into an error that would lead inevitably to their deaths. The magic the demon was using to cause the landslides crackled faintly in his ears, woven into the rumble of the falling stones. The spell's power tugged insistently on the frayed parts of the Veil. He needed to know who the demon had possessed - to lay his fears to rest, or more likely, to confirm them.

Solas craned his neck up toward the lip of the ravine and made out a shadowy figure standing there, half-concealed behind rocky outcroppings and clouds of dust. It had to be Desiderata. Before he could make out the features of the body the demon had borrowed, its head whipped around toward him and unleashed a blast of pure magical force. The spell whizzed through the air with a high-pitched shriek and sheared off another chunk of rock from above him. "Move!" shouted Zula as the avalanche began.

The elves charged forward, barely evading the cascade of snow and stone that buried the spot where they had been. Each time they slowed down, a bolt of lightning struck the ice off to one side of them and left a sooty black mark. "Run, run!" Desiderata cried mockingly. She was closer to them now than ever before. This might be the only chance for Solas to get the answer he needed.

He skidded to a halt, his feet scrambling for purchase on the ice, and looked back at where Desiderata stood perched at the rim of the gorge. "What are you doing?" shouted Ever. Solas ignored him. He took in the lean and slender form of the woman who had spoken with the demon's voice, recognized the braided blonde hair and the _vallaslin_ in honor of Andruil and the pair of daggers she had driven into his back. _Isene, of Clan Sou'adahlen. How did she find us? Why is she here now, and possessed as well?_

Desiderata smirked and raised its arms above its head, its fingers moving rapidly as it wove another spell. Solas lifted his staff and cast a barrier around himself just in time. A fireball slammed into the shield and dissipated, taking most of the barrier with it. The others were screaming for him to take cover. He narrowly dodged a second blast of flame as he retreated behind a rock formation at the water's edge to shelter alongside the others.

Solas leaned against the rough wall and took stock of the situation. The five elves were crouched behind an outcropping. As long as they stayed there, Desiderata could not obtain a clear line of sight from its side of the ravine. A too-zealous attack might bring the entire formation down on top of them and crush them all to death - and that wasn't what the demon wanted, not yet. They were safe for the moment, but they could not remain here indefinitely.

Above him, light footsteps crunched against snow and gravel. "You must be wondering why I'm here, wearing this flesh," said Desiderata, sounding amused. "I journeyed deep into the Fade, in search of longing mortal souls who'd help me to fulfill my obligations. Imagine my surprise when I found this elf. Not a scrap of magical talent, yet she cried out her desires so loudly that I could not help but hear her. In the end, we both got what we wanted. I get the chance to continue my pursuit of Clan Vunlanaris until they give me the mage whose soul and body I am owed. And _she_ gets the chance to make certain that _Solas_ never tempts a gods-fearing Dalish clan from the true path again."

Desiderata spoke his name with vicious, triumphant clarity. A chill that had nothing whatsoever to do with the weather spiraled down his spine. "What is that thing talking about?" Ever asked through gritted teeth.

"I have no idea," Solas lied. In an flash of horrible clarity, he understood how Isene had enabled Desiderata to see past his borrowed flesh and recognize him for who and what he truly was. When he had frozen Desiderata with a spell and allowed Zula to escape, the demon had caught the scent of his magic - the same magic he had used to try to soften Isene's attitude toward him, for all the good it had done him. Isene alone would never have made the connection. But when she had consented to Desiderata's possession, she had also given the demon access to all of her memories. Desiderata must have compared the signature of Solas's spells to the false Felassan's and realized they were the work of the same elf. It was a small mercy, then, that Isene believed him to be only an agent of Fen'Harel rather than the Dread Wolf himself. But in light of the suspicion that Athras and the others already bore toward him, if Desiderata revealed what she knew it would be more than enough to doom him. _And the demon knows it, too._

"Save your questions, Ever," said Athras. "I see a way out." He pointed across the river to a steep slope of talus. At first, it seemed indistinguishable from any other they had passed. But as Solas looked more closely he noticed how these particular fallen rocks formed a sort of crude staircase. The pathway led to a long, narrow ledge that curved upward to the top of the cliff, on the opposite side of the river from where Desiderata lurked. From there it would be easy to flee into the forest beyond, provided they made it that far.

"The route is very exposed," said Zula. Solas had been thinking the same thing.

"Do you think we'll find a better one?" said Athras. "We can't stay here."

Zula considered it for a moment, then nodded. "All right. When we're ready to move, Solas and I will cast barriers on everyone. Scatter when you get to the top. The demon can't chase all of us at once. We'll regroup at the base of that rock." She indicated the peak of a tall granite chimney that barely protruded above the tops of the trees.

"This is a terrible plan," said Solas.

"Can you come up with another?" asked Ever.

Before Solas could even begin to formulate another possibility, a crackling ray of magic slammed into the rocks next to his head, its bright purple light reflected by the snow. A handful of pebbles shook free from the canyon wall and landed in his lap. Desiderata had found a way to reach them after all. Another blast hit the rocks, and then a third, each one knocking more stones loose eroding their cover more. It would only be a matter of time before the demon had a clear line of sight to them once again. They all knew they were out of options.

The elves gathered their belongings and prepared to run. Zula raised her staff and drew down a barrier over the group. Solas did the same, noticing as he did how she had focused the energy of her spell on everyone other than herself. _Of course,_ he thought. _Desiderata wants her alive. The rest of us are just an impediment. She's gambling that the demon won't really try to harm her, and using her strength to protect the rest of us instead. Courageous. I hope it makes a difference._

Solas had thought he was ready to move, but it still took him by surprise when Zula darted out from under the rock. She sprinted full-tilt toward the path that represented their last hope of escape, her arms and legs pumping frantically. She was halfway up the side of the ravine before any of them, Desiderata included, could begin to react. Solas dashed out after her, making as much noise as possible in an attempt to draw the demon's attention away. By the time he began his own climb she was nearly to the top.

Desiderata screamed in frustration and let its magic fly. Spells spattered against Solas's barrier and the rocks to either side of him. His ascent was hasty and clumsy, his speed fueled by fear and adrenaline rather than skill. As he neared the top, distantly astonished to still be alive, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Ever starting to ascend. The city elf was carrying Davhalla and her heavy pack in addition to his own, displaying a strength Solas hadn't known he possessed. He shielded the child with his own body as he climbed. But his footing was uncertain, his center of gravity unbalanced by the weight of his load. Solas kept moving. He could not allow himself to become distracted. He had to save himself first.

By the time Solas reached the rim, Ever and Davhalla had only made it about a third of the way up the slope. Desiderata noticed their distress. Its cruel grin shone out white and wicked from the opposite side of the ravine. A lightning bolt sprung from the demon's palm and struck Ever's barrier with a jolt, searing the last of the protective magic away. Solas, who was working his way along the ledge and toward the concealment of the forest, was too far away to do anything about it in time. Zula was nowhere to be seen. She, at least, would survive this disaster if all else failed.

Then Athras burst into view. He crossed the frozen river in an eyeblink and was partway up the wall before Desiderata could react. With all his strength he shoved Ever upwards from behind, helping his feet to find purchase on the slippery rocks. The lightning meant for Ever and Davhalla struck him, and then again, and then a third time. It was far more than the barrier could handle. The pain must have been excruciating, but Athras remained silent and stoic even as the energy coursed through his body.

Solas had reached the end of the ledge. The woods were just ahead of him, shadowed and safe and almost inviting after the claustrophobic confines of the ravine. He could not afford to think about the others. Against all odds, he would not die today. That was all that mattered. He took off into the cover of the trees, panicked by the thought that Desiderata might give chase. The demon's voice echoed out of the canyon as he made his hasty retreat: "Only you can end this, Zula. You can give in to me at any time."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the one before it are both pretty short, so here's a midweek update. Enjoy!

Solas stumbled blindly through the forest, tripping over roots and stones, wincing and flinching as snow-covered branches struck him in the face. He did not know how long he ran before he realized nothing was chasing him. Ahead of him was a dense thicket of evergreen bushes. He dropped to his hands and knees and wriggled into the hidden void at their center, breathing deeply of the pungent scent of pine sap and needles as he waited for his hammering heart to slow down.

When at last his body had calmed itself, he brushed aside a few branches and looked around for the others. The woods were utterly still and silent. No birds sang, no animals scurried through the underbrush, and none of the other elves were anywhere in sight. A few hundred feet to the south, the tall rock formation Zula had chosen as the party's meeting place loomed above the trees. If he went there, would he find that any of the others had survived to meet him? Or would Desiderata await him instead?

As he took in his surroundings, he also realized that these woods were vaguely familiar to him. All those long days of hard-fought progress through the Frostback Mountains had ultimately brought him within perhaps a week's journey of Tarasyl'an Te'las itself. Taking the others to the fortress, or even going there alone, was not an option now for many reasons, not the least of which were the innumerable catastrophes that could result from leading Desiderata to its gates. But he also knew of other secret places in these mountains and foothills, ruins and caves and hidden temples. They could shelter him almost indefinitely if he wished.

For the first time since he had awakened, Solas genuinely considered going back into _uthenera_. He could find an undisturbed cavern and seal himself within it, then return to the depths of the Fade for a time in the hope that Desiderata and Isene alike would eventually lose interest in him. If he held his awareness close enough to the present, if he fixed his mind on the need to awaken in time to be present when Corypheus made his move, surely he could emerge from _uthenera_ once the threat had ended and avoid this confrontation altogether.

And yet the same innate sense of justice that had led him to declare war on the Evanuris in the first place bristled at the thought of denying responsibility for the mess he had made. Although the summoning of Desiderata had been all Clan Vunlanaris's doing, the demon never would have found its current body had he not behaved so arrogantly among Clan Sou'adahlen. Moreover, he was carrying at least a quarter of the party's supplies in his pack, including many crucial items the others would require for their survival. When he had chosen to intervene in the ritual and to rescue Zula, in a way, he had also taken responsibility for her fate in the days to come. If he deserted her now, in her hour of greatest need, it would be as if he had never aided her to begin with. Was that all he was? A bringer of false hope, a coward who fled at the first sign of real danger?

 _These people aren't real,_ Solas reminded himself resolutely. _You cannot behave as if their problems matter in the end._ When Corypheus unlocked the orb, when his day of reckoning finally came, the raw Fade would devour them all. Even if their souls somehow survived the Veil's sundering, they would not continue to exist in any form he would be able to recognize. Yet he could not bring himself to condemn them to death or something worse at Desiderata's hands, could not justify declaring through his inaction that they deserved to live out the rest of their brief lives in pain and terror. He would not close his eyes to their suffering. He had never done so in the days of Arlathan, and he would not begin to do so now.

Biting back a frustrated curse, he closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to enter the Fade - but not in pursuit of _uthenera_. Instead, he cast his senses out into the forest around him, seeking the others. He began by scanning the rock formation where they had planned to meet, and found Zula, Ever, and Davhalla huddled in fright at its base. The relief he felt at seeing them alive was shocking and almost shameful in its intensity. He ranged out farther, focusing on the area between the stone chimney and the ravine, and soon discovered that Athras had improbably survived as well.

Athras was lying in a small depression in the ground at the top of a hill not far from Solas's own hiding place, shielded by the dry brush. His eyes were glassy with pain, and his body shuddered with each heavy, ragged breath he drew in. It was abundantly clear why he had not reunited with the others - Desiderata waited between him and the rock formation. The demon slowly combed the trees in pursuit of its prey with Isene's knives in hand and a bloodthirsty smirk on her body's borrowed lips. Solas was not at all certain he could avoid detection if he headed for the meeting place, and he knew he could not defeat Desiderata without help. He had only one option, then.

Solas slithered out from the bushes and crept through the woods toward Athras's hiding place. No one noticed his approach. "Athras," he whispered urgently, and the other elf lifted his head from the ground. His face filled with surprise, and he motioned Solas over to him. Solas crawled the rest of the way to Athras and lay down flat beside him, both of them making themselves as small as possible.

From the depths of his pack, Solas fished out one of the few precious tinctures of elfroot they had managed to salvage from the hunters' cave near Clan Vunlanaris's camp. He pressed it into Athras's palm, and Athras drank it down without hesitation. Immediately his shaking subsided and his breathing evened out, and Solas knew he had done the right thing. As much as he regretted any use of such a limited resource, Athras would need to be at his strongest for what was to come. A hoarded potion was no good to a dead man.

Athras spoke in low, barely audible tones. "Thank all the gods you're alive. Are the others-"

"They're waiting at the meeting place." Athras closed his eyes in relief and breathed out a Dalish prayer of gratitude, which Solas did his best to ignore. "But Desiderata is between us and them, hunting. It's probably going to find them soon."

Athras did not bother to ask how Solas had come by his information. "Then we have to stop it. _Fenedhis lasa._ I wish Zula were here."

"So do I." It wasn't a lie. Solas was not too proud to admit that Zula was presently their most skilled mage. Without her, their options were sorely limited.

"We can't beat it in a fair fight, can we?"

"Probably not."

"Treachery it is, then. I might be able to sneak up on it, but I don't think I can finish it in one blow."

"Nor can I. But I can freeze it, like I did before."

"It's a start." Athras raised his head again and gazed in the direction of the ravine. "What do you think? Are these cliffs high enough that the fall might kill it?"

"I'm not sure. The body it is possessing would be badly damaged, perhaps beyond repair. A fall from such a height would most likely force the demon to abandon its host. But if it isn't immediately fatal…" The implication was clear to both of them: _If we attack Desiderata but fail to kill it promptly, it will stop toying with us and destroy us all utterly._

"Well, do you have a better idea?"

"No," admitted Solas. He could hardly believe he was about to do this - to risk his life yet again in a foolish and probably futile attempt to save a band of ignorant elves who showed him little respect and likely would never count him as a friend. But he had made his choice, and he would not disdain his own free will by shying away from the effort now.

Athras pulled himself painfully to his feet, looking cautiously around in case the demon should appear. He left his pack beneath the bush - the clearest sign yet that he intended to succeed at this task, or to die trying. "Stay hidden," Athras said. "I'll draw the demon's attention and lure it toward the cliff. Choose your moment wisely. We'll only have one chance to get this right."

"I know," said Solas as he rose from the frozen ground. This close to Athras, he could see how stiffly the other elf moved even after having consumed the healing potion. Desiderata's lightning had struck Athras square in the chest and left charred holes in his clothing. Beneath his shirt, his pallid skin was covered in vicious burns and branching red marks. Had he ever truly healed from the wounds the rage demon had given him on the night of their escape? Had he been hiding the extent of his pain and his injuries ever since, not wanting to give Zula yet another thing to worry about, knowing that he had to keep pace with the rest or put all of them at risk?

Solas did not voice any of his suspicions. He pointed toward where he had last seen Desiderata. "Good fortune go with you, Athras."

"I don't need it," said Athras with a feral grin. "Elgar'nan and Andruil are on my side already."

 _They really aren't_ , thought Solas, but he knew better than to say it aloud. Instead he watched as Athras charged down the hillside with his ironbark sword held out in front of him like a lance, bellowing a Dalish war chant. There was no doubt or hesitation in his movements. His warrior's instincts had been honed down to a single sharpened point beyond which there was nothing but certainty. Solas cast a barrier on Athras as he ran. The scent of the Dread Wolf's magic would serve to draw more of Desiderata's attention. Then Solas, too, raced down the hill, moving as swiftly and stealthily as he could manage, treading lightly on the twigs and dead leaves and dirty snow blanketing the forest floor. Athras was prepared to give everything for the sake of his people. Could Fen'Harel himself fault anyone for that?

Soon he heard the sound of battle from somewhere up ahead. He slowed to a trot, raising his staff and weaving the threads of his single ice spell around its tip. Athras's barrier had to be long gone by now, but if Solas cast another it would give his position away. Athras would have to endure until the proper moment. As Solas drew nearer to the edge of the canyon, closer to the sound, a part of him expected it to abruptly stop - evidence of Athras's defeat and the failure of their plan. But the noise went on and on. Blasts of magic sizzled in the stagnant air, interrupted only by the meaty thunk of a blade cutting into flesh and by Athras's pained cries.

At last Athras and Desiderata came into view. Solas skidded to a halt behind a tree and observed them as they fought, not twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. Athras was covered in burns and wounds, each one slowly oozing thick blood. One of his arms hung uselessly at his side. He was barely keeping the demon at bay with clumsy one-handed swings of his sword. Desiderata itself seemed to have been barely affected by any of his attacks. But Athras had not forgotten his purpose. His eyes fixed on Solas's for an instant. It was time.

Solas lowered his staff, sketched out the final lines and curves of the sigil that would complete his spell, and launched it at Desiderata with all his might. The magic was well aimed. It struck the demon at center mass. A small explosion of ice wreathed the creature's torso -

\- and splintered, and fizzled, and did nothing to immobilize the demon.

Solas nearly screamed in frustration. Of all the times that his limited, imperfect magic could have failed him, why now? Desiderata watched the last tendrils of frost drift away from Isene's body in useless wisps, then turned toward Solas with a knowing, triumphant smile. "Nice try," it said to him, "but you're going to have to-"

The demon's sentence cut off abruptly as something huge and heavy collided with it from the side. _Athras._ Solas may have hesitated when his strategy had failed, helpless and bereft of ideas, but Athras had done no such thing. Perhaps this had been his real plan all along. While Desiderata was distracted with taunting Solas, Athras had seen his chance and taken it. He charged at Desiderata with all of his strength, throwing his whole body against Isene's, entangling his limbs with hers. They fell, and rolled, and tumbled together over the edge of the cliff and into thin air. Athras made no sound as he dropped over the brink. Desiderata, realizing too late that it had lost, let out a high-pitched shriek. The sound cut off abruptly within seconds.

Solas hurried to the lip of the gorge and peered downward. Running footsteps pounded against the hard ground behind him. The others must have heard the fight when it began. Far below, on the surface of the frozen river, two bodies sprawled in a spreading pool of dark blood. They lay unmoving at the center of a spreading labyrinth of cracks, their necks and arms and legs broken and sickeningly angled. "Athras, no," Zula was saying. Her despondent voice was all he heard when the ice split open and the deep cold water beneath it drank both Athras and Desiderata down. He was alive, and they were dead. It was what he had wanted. And yet he felt nothing but frigid emptiness as he watched the bodies sinking, the last evidence of a sacrifice he would never be noble enough to offer.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas encounters a reminder of his past.

The four surviving elves did not linger at the cliff beside the river. There was nothing left there to see. Instead they hiked sluggishly past the rock formation that had been their meeting place and up the gentle slope upon which it stood. Behind it they found the remnants of a small, long-deserted Dalish settlement. Its contents had long ago been worn away by the elements, scattered by scavengers, or claimed by earlier enterprising travelers. The clan must have been annihilated completely, or it must have needed to flee its lands in great haste, judging by the abandoned statues of Elvhen gods encircling the camp.

When Zula saw the low flat altar stone between Mythal and Elgar'nan, a strangled sob caught in her throat. She stumbled toward the images of her gods with her arms outstretched, her previous stoic resolve crumbling. Solas stood back, bearing silent witness. He had learned his lesson with Davhalla after all. He would not deign to tell Zula how to grieve now.

Zula reached into one of the pouches at her belt and pulled out a small cone of incense. Solas wondered why she had carried it all the way from Vunlanaris's camp. Had she anticipated a moment like this one, when she would need to mourn yet another one of her own? She set it on the altar and lit it with a spark from her fingers. A thin tendril of purple smoke, smelling of resin and sandalwood, spiraled up into the cold air. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to center herself. Then she began to speak, quietly and in Elvhen, in phrases clearly as familiar to her as they were unknown to Solas:

"Falon'Din, _lethanavir_ , watch over my kinsman, Athras Vunlanaris, on his journey to the Beyond. Guide his feet, calm his soul, lead him to his rest. Elgar'nan, All-Father, be the light on his path. Mythal, All-Mother, protect him and mother him in the realms where mortals cannot tread. Sylaise Hearthkeeper, tend the fires for him until he arrives in the place where all wounds will be healed. Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla, grant him bright stars to steer by and a shining road to follow. Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, see that his loyalty is rewarded. June, Master of Crafts, let his spirit work its will and find its purpose. Andruil, Sister of the Moon, let his steps be swift and tireless in the great hunt that is still to come. Athras Vunlanaris, my kinsman, my friend, may the Dread Wolf never hear your steps until the day I come to join you."

Zula's voice broke only on the last sentence. She fell to her knees before the altar, her shoulders shaking with quiet tears. Ever approached her cautiously, as if trying to gain the trust of a cornered animal, and put an experimental, comforting arm around her shoulder. Davhalla released one hand from its firm grip on Ever's waist and placed it on Zula's forearm. Zula leaned into their touches, and the noise of her weeping intensified. Ever put his lips up to her ear and began to whisper indistinct words of comfort. Solas continued to watch from a respectful distance, feeling desolate and entirely superfluous.

After some time, Zula quietly said, " _Ma serannas._ " She stood up, wiping away tears. "We should make camp."

"Is it safe here?" Davhalla asked.

"For now," said Solas, moving closer to the others. This, at least, was a situation in which he knew what to say. "Desiderata has lost its body. The trauma of separation from its physical form will likely force the spirit back into the Fade. It will take some time for it to regroup and find another host." He chose not to mention the vanishingly small chance that Isene's body had somehow survived the fall. In that case, the demon would be closer than any of them liked. Yet he could see the weariness written in every movement the others made, and knew none of them had the physical or mental strength to go on without first resting. Exhaustion might lead to mistakes just as fatal as any demon's attack. If that made it their fate to die in their sleep by Desiderata's hand tonight, there was little he could do to change it.

A few hours of daylight remained, so Ever volunteered to venture back into the woods to hunt and to scan for signs of trouble. In the meantime, Solas dug out a place in the snow for the tent. As soon as he was finished assembling the group's shelter, Davhalla crawled inside and fell into a deep and exhausted sleep from which none of the adults had the heart to rouse her. Zula set her usual protective wards and built the campfire in a long-neglected fire ring. As she melted snow for water and prepared a simple dinner, she paused frequently to stare into the flames with a haunted look on her face.

Solas hadn't meant to hover so near to her, but he couldn't help it, worried as he was by her misty eyes and her continued silence. In time, she noticed his presence. The clan that had once made its home in this clearing had arranged broad, flat stones as seating around the fire ring, and she wordlessly patted the empty one next to hers. He sat down beside her and said softly in Elvhen, "I'm sorry about Athras. I know the two of you were very close."

Zula slowly turned toward Solas and held his gaze. Her eyes were reddened and puffy, her dirty cheeks streaked with the tracks of her tears like a strange sorrow-filled mirror of her _vallaslin_. Her hair was coming free of its tight and complex braids. Loose wisps of black hair stood out around her temples like a cloud of curling smoke. "We weren't," she said.

"Oh. I beg your pardon. I thought…"

"You thought because I laid with him, we were as good as bonded." His lack of a response told her she was correct. He wondered how she had known that he knew. She shook her head. "Solas, for someone who keeps talking about how the Dalish should do away with all tradition, sometimes you are surprisingly traditional."

"Yes, I suppose I can be."

"It wasn't like that. I didn't know him better than any other warrior from the clan. And apparently, since he never bothered to tell me Keeper Tarasha was planning to kill me all along, I didn't know him half as well as I thought I did." Zula picked up a sharpened stick and poked at the fire. Sparks flew up from a burning log and into the darkening sky. "I can't really mourn him as a person. But I can mourn the loss of what he represents. Unless somebody else got away from the camp before we did, I am the last surviving member of Clan Vunlanaris."

"But Davhalla-"

"Is a child. She didn't initiate, and now she never will. It takes more than one newly created Second to make a clan. When Athras was here I could pretend Vunlanaris might survive somehow. I think that's what I really wanted from him. To feel like I wasn't alone, that it wasn't all lost, even if only for a moment. Now I don't even have that anymore. The clan is gone. It's only me."

"You would grieve for them even after everything they did? Even after they tried to sacrifice you to a demon to repair their own foolish mistakes?" His tone was harsher and more chiding than he wanted it to be.

There was no anger in Zula's rueful smile. "I don't want to remember them only for the wrong they did. I want to remember what they might have been - what I thought they were, when I chose to join the Dalish. With every clan we lose, we lose a part of ourselves. Even if the clans don't always get it right."

"I understand." Solas hesitated, unsure of whether he truly wanted to speak of what her words had brought unavoidably to mind. In the end, he could not stop himself. "A very long time ago," he began, "I had to make a difficult choice. My friends and allies - my family, you might say - had lost sight of the ideals we once shared. Things could not continue as they were. I was right to distance myself from them, and ultimately to take up arms against them. Their cruelty, the evil they did - it was inexcusable. I do not regret my decisions." _Usually._ "But now that they are gone, and I am still here, at times I regret the loss of what we were. I know I did the right thing. It does not make me any less alone."

At some point she had turned away from the fire to watch him as he spoke. He forced himself to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said.

"So am I."

Neither of them spoke again until Ever returned empty-handed some time later. Although he brought no game, he had seen no sign of Desiderata nor anything else suspicious in the woods nearby. They set a schedule of watches for the sake of everyone's peace of mind, but the night passed without incident. Zula took the last watch, and when Solas woke the next morning he found that she had rekindled the fire in the predawn hours. She showed no indication of wanting to break camp. "Let's stay here for one more day," she told Ever when he questioned her about it. Solas wasn't sure she was making the right decision - body or no body, Desiderata yet lived, and it would surely try to catch Zula's scent again as soon as it was able - but he did not challenge her leadership.

Although the elves tried to spend the day resting as much as possible, the necessities of survival waited for no one. They divided up the crucial tasks without debate: Ever would make another excursion to hunt and trap, Davhalla would mind the fire, Zula would gather snow and firewood near camp, and Solas would attempt to forage farther afield. Davhalla seemed uneasy about being alone, and Ever just as nervous about leaving Zula, but Solas had no such concerns. He felt relieved by the thought of finally experiencing the elusive solitude he had been craving, of not having to monitor his every action and word lest he give his own secrets away.

Solas departed as promptly as he could. He took nothing with him except Keeper Tarasha's staff, a waterskin, and an empty sack to gather provisions. At first he moved cautiously, crouching low in the underbrush for concealment. But neither his magical nor mundane senses alerted him to any danger, and he found himself relaxing into the peace of unbroken solitude. It was the first time in weeks that he had not been under some sort of observation. He walked swiftly, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the encampment as he could, not only to increase his odds of finding food but also to prove to himself that nothing lurked in the wilderness. Soon he felt confident enough to let both his mind and his steps wander as he collected the meager nuts and berries given forth by the frozen landscape.

These woods were still strangely familiar to him, but it was only when he came to the upper edge of another craggy rock face and looked down at the carved stone door below him that he understood why. Before, with Clan Sou'adahlen, he had ascended from the south to reach this place. His current party was descending from the north by a different route, so he had not fully known where he was going until the entryway to Fen'Harel's hidden weapons cache was already in view. His foraging forgotten, he climbed cautiously down the steep slope until he reached the bottom of the gravel-strewn basin. From the moment he had recognized the cache, he had known he would return to its threshold, even as he dreaded what he would find there.

He would not have been able to identify the spot where Isene had burned Fen'Harel's body - _his_ body - had he not already known where to look. Months had passed since that terrible day, and the wind had scattered his ashes throughout the forest. Scavengers and carrion-eaters had carried away the long bones not consumed by the fire. His skull had remained within the pyre's sooty scar, crushed into small shards by a forceful blow from Isene’s heel. He stared down into his own empty, shattered eye sockets and thought, for some reason, of a group of students he had observed at the University of Orlais not long after he had awakened. The young scholars had been drunkenly and earnestly debating a paradox introduced to them by one of their professors. _This is my grandfather's axe. My father replaced the haft and I replaced the head._ The students had been unsure of whether the axe was the same tool the grandfather had built, though they seemed to find much joy in the discussion.

He knew exactly what Fen'Harel would have done in this situation - what he himself _should_ do. The caches were not only a warehouse of supplies, but a means of escape. Many of them were connected to each other via a labyrinth of ancient tunnels. The catacombs burrowed through the heart of the Frostback Mountains, and would carry him all the way to the relative safety of the Fereldan foothills below. He alone knew the spells that would awaken the cache's magic and lower the wards to permit him entry. Even in his weakened state, he could cast them.

If he fled, he doubted Desiderata would pursue him. It was Isene who truly sought to wreak vengeance upon him, and now she was almost certainly dead. For all the demon's bluster and its threats to reveal his secrets, its real desire was for Zula. Her submission was necessary if it were to be freed from the tattered remnants of the bargain binding it the last surviving elf of Clan Vunlanaris. If and when Desiderata regained enough strength to resume its search, following him would be probably not be its main priority, if it were forced to choose between him and Zula. He no longer carried the group's supplies. He would no longer inevitably doom others if he did not return - and he might save himself by doing so.

For Fen'Harel there would have been no choice at all. Fen'Harel would leave the other elves to their fate without a second thought. Perhaps they would survive the wilderness and defeat Desiderata, or perhaps not. Either way, it would have been none of his concern. But here, in this broken world that his actions and inactions had all but destroyed, without his power, without the People, without the body he had worn when he sundered the heavens, without even the proper memory of his deeds inscribed within the pages of history, was he still Fen'Harel at all? Was he still the so-called Lord of Tricksters, He Who Hunts Alone?

Or was he something new?

He crouched down beside his own pyre and ran his fingers through the ashes. They closed around one of the few pieces of Fen'Harel that had not entirely burned - the jaw of some small animal, once a clattering adornment braided into his thick hair. Its smooth surface had charred black in the fire, but the bone itself was intact. There was a long strip of leather wound around the mouth of the sack he carried, meant to hold the bag closed. He pulled it away and wrapped it around the bone, then tied the strap to itself to fashion a crude pendant. He draped the cord around his neck, surprised by his own foolish sentimentality, and rose. _The world has forgotten me,_ he thought fiercely. _I will not forget myself._

Solas slung the nearly empty sack over his shoulder and began the slow and laborious climb out of the basin and the long walk back to camp. He was not Dalish, nor would he ever be. All the same, he was not prepared to believe that the elves with whom he had cast his lot had nothing at all to offer him. Already he had decided to place his future in these people's hands, just as they had placed theirs in his. He could hardly abandon them now.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas offers his companions a way out.

Climbing out of the basin took longer than Solas expected. It was dusk by the time he returned to camp. Zula, Ever, and Davhalla were gathered around the fire, plucking feathers from the carcasses of a pair of skinny birds. They all turned toward him as he approached the hearth and set the mostly empty sack of foraged provisions at Zula's feet. She glanced at the blackened jawbone he now wore around his neck, and he saw her begin to formulate a question and then just as quickly decide not to ask it. "Where have you been?" she asked instead, in a tone of mingled curiosity and concern.

"I have found something important," he said, not wanting to draw the matter out for any longer than necessary. "I need you all to come with me."

Zula tilted her head and regarded him for a long moment before she said, "No."

"And why not?"

"It's almost full dark. If you're going to ask us to go wandering off into the woods with you in the middle of the night, you'll have to tell us where you're taking us first."

"It will be easier if I show you." Without the evidence of the escape route in front of him, Solas knew his plan would sound like a mad, impossible fantasy.

"Then it can wait until morning," Zula said firmly. He nodded once in understanding. As badly as he wanted to get moving, he suspected it would be difficult to convince her and the others to follow him into the unknown. He would need to tread lightly once again to avoid coming off as an untrustworthy flat-ear luring honest elves to their doom. After they saw the cache and he told them where it could take them, he would need all the goodwill he had accumulated to convince them to follow him and save their own lives.

Unable to relax, Solas took the first watch. His mind was still racing with what-ifs and wild scenarios when Ever woke to relieve him of duty. But he must have slept after he lay down in his makeshift bedroll, because the rest of the night passed faster than he expected it to. Still, he arose feeling unrested and unsettled, as though in sleep he had peered into the Fade for guidance and found only vague, threatening premonitions there. For a moment, he was struck by the perhaps not unreasonable fear that Zula had changed her mind in the night, and that she would not let him take her to the cache after all. But when he emerged from the tent, the fire had not been relit and the others were already breaking camp. "All right, Solas," Zula said as she passed around the last scraps of meat from the night before. "Show us what you've found."

He led the others through the forest in relative silence, speaking only to direct them on the path or to warn them away from the few hazards he had spotted. Around mid-morning they came to the edge of the basin and worked their way down the slope leading to the cache. The sight of the building's ornate, ancient facade, so different from anything else they had seen on their journeys, struck the others temporarily speechless and bought him more time to think about how to explain it. Davhalla paced in front of the door, briskly rubbing her arms as a cold wind steadily blew, while Zula squinted at the carvings covering its obsidian-black surface. None of them appeared to notice the small burn scar on the ground nearby or its fine dusting of bone fragments, although Solas still found it difficult to tear his gaze away from it. "What is this place?" Ever asked at last.

"It is a supply cache," said Solas. "In ancient times, the Elvhen hid provisions here, for use in the event of an emergency. But they were not only warehouses. Many of them were also methods of escape. This one leads to a hidden passageway beneath the Frostback Mountains. I can navigate through its tunnels. They should take us beneath the mountains and bring us within perhaps a day's journey of the Imperial Highway. From there, it would be easy to reach Ostagar."

The forest around him echoed with silence. He felt the weight of three pairs of eyes fixed upon him - Ever's hopeful, Zula's suspicious, and Davhalla's uncomprehending - and thought yet again of all the things he was leaving unsaid. He did not intend to go with them to Ostagar, of course, but they did not need to know that yet. He would see them safely to the Imperial Highway and ensure that Desiderata had lost the party's scent. Then he would turn back toward the Frostbacks and hope he could return to Corypheus in time to do what had to be done. It was a risky plan in many ways, not least of all because he knew only in the broadest general terms what this cache might contain. In the time of Arlathan, the People had known the truth, and they had never been circumspect about who Fen'Harel was and what he had done. Any or all of his most closely held secrets might be waiting to be discovered within the heart of the mountain. But what did it profit him, or the People, if he died in this merciless and frozen wilderness with all that he had hidden remaining safely unrevealed, when he might have saved everyone if he had only been willing to begin to tell the truth?

"There's a powerful enchantment keeping this door shut," Zula said as she continued to study the elaborate images around the entrance. "It's complex. I don't know if I'll be able to break it."

"I know how to dispel it," said Solas. He felt Zula's incredulous gaze flicker toward him and did his best to pretend he hadn't noticed.

Ever's brow furrowed in thought. "How long are we talking about spending down here?"

"I am not entirely certain," Solas admitted. "I have never traveled through these tunnels personally, and any number of things may have changed in the centuries since they last saw use. I estimate it will take us three or four days to reach the exit. But underground, we will be sheltered from the elements, and the conditions will be predictable. If we remain on the surface, it will be weeks before we get to the highway. And you've seen what the weather is like in these mountains."

"There won't be any game for me to hunt down there," said Ever.

"We have plenty of water, and we've saved some trail rations," Zula pointed out. She was still crouched before the door. Her tone was distant and thoughtful, entertaining the possibility of going inside without accepting it yet. "We can hold out easily for a few days if we don't encounter any complications."

"That's a big 'if,'" said Ever.

"I understand your concern," said Solas. "Would it change things if you knew there might still be preserved food below? The magic of Elvhenan was unthinkably potent by today's standards. Some of the spells may have held, even after all this time." _You have no idea whether that is true,_ some inner voice protested, but he ignored it.

"And _that_ is an even bigger 'if,'" said Ever. "But you've still got a point, Solas. The storms out here are intense. We've been lucky with them so far, but the closer we get to spring, the worse they'll get. All things considered, it seems like a bigger risk to stay out here in the Frostbacks than to go inside. At least we won't be exposed to the weather in there."

"Then we are in agreement," said Solas, unable to hide his incredulity.

"Weird, right?" said Ever with a lopsided smirk. "But my opinion and yours aren't the only ones that matter." He knelt down next to Davhalla and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. "What do you think, _da'len_?" The profound tenderness he felt for her was readily apparent in the endearment, despite his mangled pronunciation. "Would you rather stay on our path in the woods, or take our chances in the tunnels?"

Davhalla seemed even younger and more lost than usual when she asked in a small voice, "Will it be warm in the tunnels?"

"Warmer than it is on the surface," said Solas, trying to sound caring rather than calculating. "We will be shielded from the wind and snow, at the least."

"Then I want to go in the tunnels," Davhalla said. She pressed herself tightly into Ever's embrace, shivering pathetically. For a moment Solas allowed himself to believe he might yet have his way - until he heard Zula clear her throat behind him and remembered, _She hasn't had her say._

"I know these carvings," Zula said, softly but urgently. Solas's blood ran cold as he turned toward her. She indicated several grouping of symbols on the lintel, tracing their outlines in the air without touching them. "These runes. This glyph. The image of the wolf. I've never seen them for myself, but Keeper Tarasha told me what they were and what they mean." She lowered her hand and met his eyes with a clarity that told him she was intent upon an answer to this mystery. "This building is literally covered in Fen'Harel's iconography."

Solas knew the next words he spoke would determine much of the success or failure of all his plans. _Is it time to tell her who I am, to assure her that I mean her no harm?_ he wondered briefly. Then he remembered Athras's incredulous disbelief when he had attempted to confess his real identity. _No. It won't work._ It had been good fortune of a sort that Athras had perished before he had been able to say anything to poison all the others against Solas. _I need to try something completely different._

Solas shook his head and pasted a lopsided smile onto his face. "Really, the Dread Wolf?" he said with a chuckle. "Outside of the Dalish, do any elves truly believe those old myths anymore? Why, Ever doesn't."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Ever muttered, still stroking Davhalla's hair.

"I find it strange," said Zula, "that someone who talks incessantly about the lost glories of Arlathan would also believe Fen'Harel holds no importance at all."

 _Damnation. She has me there._ "You are right. I would not say he holds no importance. All the same, you must believe me when I tell you the Dread Wolf is not what he once was. Perhaps he was never that thing to begin with. I am confident that if we enter this cache, he will not catch your scent, if this is what you fear. Nor will you fall into any temptation your Keeper may have warned you against."

Zula's voice was stronger and more confident now, a summoning spell that would bind him to her will and call him to account at long last. "And how do you know so much about Fen'Harel's opinions anyway?"

He thought fast, weighed his options in an instant, and decided he would tell her the closest lie to the truth that he could manage. "Most people know the Dalish have tried to preserve the ways of the ancient Elvhen as they understand them. What most do not know is that the Dalish are not the only ones who have done this. I was born and raised in one such clan. Other elves might call us devotees of Fen'Harel, but the truth is much more complicated. We do not worship the Dread Wolf, for he was never a god. He was only ever a man, albeit a wise and powerful one whose example we aspire to. Our practice has always included the study of Elvhen history and the rediscovery of lost knowledge. That is how I learned of the existence of places like this one, and how I was able to recognize it when I stumbled upon it while foraging." He heard himself borrowing pieces of Felassan's identity again, weaving the dead elf's story into his own, and thought uncontrollably, _Stealing his name didn't work for you with Clan Sou'adahlen. What makes you think taking even more from your only follower will change things for you now?_

Zula was silent for what felt like an eternity. Her jaw was firmly set, and muscles twitched in one of her cheeks. She was making an immense effort to hold her face expressionless, to keep from giving too much of herself away. Davhalla's head was so deeply buried beneath Ever's arm that she must not have heard or understood anything, and Ever only looked confused. Somehow Solas had always known that it would come to this, that Zula's judgment alone would ultimately determine his fate.

"Athras always thought you were hiding something," Zula finally said. "He told me not to trust you. Before he…" She trailed off. _He warned her about me before he died, then. Inconvenient. At least he didn't change his mind about not telling her who I am._ "I didn't think he meant you were a part of Fen'Harel's cult."

"The Dalish would call my clan a cult. That does not mean it actually is one."

"Keeper Tarasha told me many times that the Dread Wolf and his servants would say anything, do anything, stop at nothing to corrupt us."

"Keeper Tarasha also tried to sacrifice you to a demon less than a month ago. From what I gather, the Dread Wolf had nothing to do with it."

Zula flinched and lowered her head. "That was cruel, Solas."

 _But not untrue._ " _Ir abelas_ ," he responded, though he knew even as he said the words that he did not really mean them. All the same he did his best to let his features soften into a pleading, beseeching expression. "The urgency of the situation does not allow me time to choose my words well. I know perfectly well what the Dalish believe about Fen'Harel. My aim in this is not to change your mind." _Not right now, anyway._ "Please understand, I did not keep this from you because I was planning to betray you, or to somehow seduce you to Fen'Harel's cause. We were fighting for our lives. It did not seem relevant."

"It's relevant now."

"Precisely." He stepped closer to her and waited until she could meet his eyes again. All the anger and betrayal of her tumultuous inner conflict were beginning to slip into her carefully controlled exterior. He could not meet that storm of emotion with reason alone. So he let his own mask of calm drop as much as he dared, let her see some small fraction of the fear and grief and desperation he so rarely permitted himself to indulge in. "Do you think I didn't know how you would react to this? I took a great risk by telling it to you. It was the only way I could think of to save us all. I don't want to die here, Zula. Let me help you. Please."

There was another long pause. As Solas watched Zula, awaiting her decision, he realized for the first time how tired she appeared. She did not only carry the same physical exhaustion with which all of them struggled every day. She also bore the weight of leadership, the self-imposed responsibility she had assumed toward the lives of her companions. _They might have been trying to name her Sul'ana_ , he thought. And when she finally nodded, the motion so slight as to be almost imperceptible, he did not know whether it was genuine trust in him or simply resignation to the will of the others that led her to accept the offer in the end. "Very well," she said. "Let's go inside."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> sul'ana = to serve


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and his companions explore ancient ruins.

Ever and Zula made a final inventory of the group's supplies while Solas opened the long-sealed entrance to Fen'Harel's cache. The brush of his hand across the carvings brought the sigils flaring to life just as quickly and as brightly as they had when he had made his fatal miscalculation in front of Isene and the warriors of Clan Sou'adahlen. He sent a trickle of magic into the enchantments holding the hidden mechanisms in place. The door swung open with a low rumble of stone scraping against stone. He knew Zula was watching him with suspicion, so he made a show of channeling the power, as if overcoming the spells required effort beyond simply allowing the door to unlock by his command as it had been built to do.

The elves hesitantly approached the entryway and peered nervously into the bottomless darkness beyond. "Is it going to close behind us after we go inside?" asked Ever.

"If we want it to," said Solas. "I could even seal it with magic, if you would like."

"What if you seal it, and then something happens to you? We'd be trapped down here."

"You have a point. Perhaps I could teach Zula how to open it, in case of emergency."

"No," Zula said flatly. Solas felt unexpectedly offended by her refusal. His first instinct was to challenge her - _is your fear of the Dread Wolf so great that you will not even learn this simple spell from me?_ \- until he realized her intent. _If she is ever to be accepted among another Dalish clan again, she needs plausible deniability. Being able to say honestly that she knows nothing of this magic will aid her in regaining their trust later._ "Close it, but leave it unsealed. That way, any one of us can still get out if something goes wrong."

"As you wish," said Solas. "But if I do not seal it, anyone who comes across the opened cache will be able to follow us inside."

"Sounds better than being trapped in the tunnels if you die," said Ever matter-of-factly.

"I won't die," said Solas, wishing he felt more certain about that assertion.

"Here's hoping." Ever squinted into the blackness beyond the door. "Maker, it's dark in there. I wish we had a lantern."

"Allow me." Solas aimed his staff into the dark maw of the cache and directed another gentle stream of magic toward the veilfire brazier he knew would be bolted to the wall just inside. Green flames sprang up in the small metal bowl. They burned without fuel, their strange unwavering light producing no smoke or heat.

An ornate iron torch was built into the brazier. Solas pulled it out and handed it to Davhalla. " _Da'len_ , will you carry the light for us?" he asked, and was pleased when she nodded solemnly in reply. The simple yet crucial task would keep her occupied while also freeing up the adults to attack and defend against anything unexpected they might encounter.

Solas stepped through the door. His nose filled with the stale dusty air of a hidden place, its stillness improbably undisturbed for millennia. He motioned for the others to follow, and with some reluctance they did. He gestured with his staff, and the door slid closed behind them with a slow, menacing rumble. A shroud of utter blackness surrounded them, barely mitigated by the veilfire torch's faint illumination. Another wave of his staff, another brush of his magic against the too-thick Veil, and a dozen other braziers flared to life along the walls of the massive storeroom in which they stood. Someone, perhaps Zula, gasped in astonishment from behind him. He felt a small, foolish thrill at having amazed them, as if for an instant he had once again grasped some vestige of the strength this world had sapped from him.

Hesitantly, tentatively, they moved deeper into the cache. They had entered an enormous vault, carved out of the mountain by the magic of Elvhenan. Not even the master stonemasons of today's dwarves could accomplish such feats of craftsmanship in the aftermath of what Fen'Harel had done. Shallow alcoves lined the fresco-adorned walls, each one crammed with a wealth of supplies intended for the soldiers of the long-ago rebellion. Many, but not all, of the provisions appeared dusty yet intact, although the armor and weapons lined neatly in racks along one wall were so corroded with age as to be useless. At the opposite end of the room, the dark narrow maw of the tunnel that would carry them to safety yawned before them.

"Solas, you were right about at least one thing," said Ever. "It looks like some of this food might still be good." Ever indicated a small, carefully hewn niche inside which clear containers of preserved fruit were neatly stacked. His brow wrinkled in confusion as he picked up an unbroken block of crystal with plump crimson berries suspended inside it. "How do you get this open?"

Zula was still looking at the rows of rusted swords. "Are you sure you want to eat that, Ever?"

"It's perfectly safe," said Solas. "Can't you sense the magic around it?" Zula shook her head. _How depressing,_ thought Solas. Although the charm of preservation had necessarily been quite potent in order to persist for more than five thousand years, it was also more subtle than anything modern mages could achieve - so subtle, it seemed, that Zula could not detect it at all. How many other wonders of Elvhenan did the people of this age overlook every day in their ignorance? Had they ever once considered the forgotten splendors on which their lives were built?

He took the container from Ever's unresisting hands. It split easily into two halves when he brushed his thumb along one of the planes of the crystal. He reached inside to pluck out a berry and bit down on it, briefly closing his eyes in involuntary pleasure as the sweet, rich, slightly tart flavor flooded his mouth. An unexpected memory of the bounty of a long-lost Arlathan summer, ripe and golden and already disappearing on his tongue.

Solas did not get to eat another berry. Zula and Ever consumed the rest in the blink of an eye as soon as they were confident they would come to no harm. Ever groaned in satisfaction as he chewed, while Zula appeared more pensive. Solas wondered if she was now thinking about the same lost marvels that the taste of the fruit had uncontrollably summoned to his mind. But it was Davhalla who took the greatest delight in the preserved food. As soon as she discovered the trick of how to get into the containers, she cracked open crystal after crystal and devoured their contents as if she had not eaten this well in months. _She probably hasn't_ , Solas realized as he watched her sucking the juice from her small fingers.

The others evidently understood how badly Davhalla needed this sustenance. They gave her plenty of time to eat her fill as they sated their own hunger, gathered up the remaining crystals, and packed them away. Then they turned their attention to the rest of the cache. Ever's eyes widened and his jaw dropped when he discovered an alcove heaped high with moldering sacks of gems and ingots of gold and silver. Once, Fen'Harel's allies could have used these raw materials to craft enchanted items or to bribe guards and functionaries. Steadily, deliberately, Ever crammed every one of his pockets, every empty bag he could find, and every unused corner of his pack with all the precious stones and metals he could carry. He caught Solas watching him and grinned with mock sheepishness at having been spotted. "It's not like any of the Dread Wolf's people are going to come back for it, is it?" he said with a conspiratorial wink.

 _We are those people,_ Solas thought. He made no move to interfere as Ever plundered the cache. There was nothing sacred here to be profaned. He and the other elves had led difficult lives of pain and privation, and he could hardly begrudge them their windfall. Yet when Ever turned his attention toward the next alcove, Solas said, "However, it would be best if you did not touch those."

"Why not?" asked Ever. The niche in front of which he had paused contained bins full of bumpy, oblong lumps of dried clay, each one cautiously nestled between battings of cotton and fleece. "What are these things?"

"They are munitions." Zula's shoulders straightened in alarm, and Ever took a few hasty steps backwards. "The spheres are enchanted to store magical blasts. If you break them, they will detonate. Don't worry. They are stable as long as we don't disturb them."

"Oh, there's definitely no chance of that happening now," said Ever with forced cheer. He turned away and continued to comb the room for valuables, but Solas remained in front of the crates of explosives. Spells of destruction were not the only enchantments stored in these caches. The slaves of Elvhenan had been denied the right to develop their magic as they toiled in the service of their masters, and so the rebellion had provided ways for them to level the playing field against the Evanuris. The small, sigil-inscribed stones he sought were just where he expected to find them, tucked away in a corner within a plain ceramic urn. When nobody was looking, he grabbed a handful and shoved them deep into one of the pouches at his belt. The spell he had chosen would have little use in the short term, but if they actually reached the Imperial Highway it might yet prove invaluable.

While Davhalla ate and Ever took what he pleased, Zula stared at the frescoes on the walls. The cool darkness had preserved them well, apart from a little flaking paint around the edges. His heart sank when he saw the image she was studying. It was a copy of a mural from some library somewhere, depicting Fen'Harel ( _me_ , he reminded himself) lifting the _vallaslin_ from a group of slaves. The rebels had replicated it all around Elvhenan as a reminder of what they could never, would never go back to. She noticed him watching her and said softly in Elvhen, "This reminds me of what you said about the _vallaslin_ before, when you and Athras were arguing. Were they really slave markings in the time of Arlathan?"

"I would not lie about such a thing," said Solas, wishing he could say _I do not lie at all._

She nodded once and looked back at the fresco. "Was this done to you?"

"No. I never bore them in the first place."

"Right. I suppose you wouldn't have, if your clan thought they were a sign of bondage." She walked slowly to the next fresco, a stylized depiction of the Dread Wolf stalking his enemies on the battlefield, and he trailed along after her. "It would be a poor way to honor a good man. If that's what your clan believed Fen'Harel to be."

"I never said he was a good man," Solas said, remembering the extra eyes inked on Felassan's face, the stillness of his body as he slipped into that final dream from which there would be no awakening. "Only that the men he fought were worse."

"Is that the best any of us can hope for? To be less evil than the people we fight?"

"I hope not."

Something tapped Solas lightly on the forearm. He looked down to see Davhalla beside him. Her mouth and hands were stained red with berries, and her face wore a curious expression. "Is that Fen'Harel?" she asked in the trade tongue, pointing at the fresco.

"It is, _da'len_ ," he said.

"I heard you telling Zula he wasn't really a Dread Wolf. Is that true?"

Solas was acutely aware of the treacherous ground on which he once again stood. "As I said before, the truth is much more complicated."

"Then tell me a story about the Dread Wolf," Davhalla said with finality. "A true one."

 _How like the Dalish,_ Solas thought, _always looking for the perfect myth to explain all the mysteries of the world._ He glanced nervously at the others for permission, not wanting to incite another debate. Ever, who was struggling under the burden of his now-much-heavier pack, only shrugged. "I'm not her mother," Zula said. "Do what you like."

And so, after they had gathered the last of their supplies and started off down the smoothly sloping tunnel toward the Imperial Highway, Solas began to tell tales of the Dread Wolf. It was an easy walk, particularly compared to the challenges they had faced while traversing the Frostbacks, and he was able to devote most of his attention to keeping Davhalla and the others entertained. He started with the better-known fables - the courser and the wolf, the noble's prayer, the slow arrow. But when he saw how Davhalla thirsted for more stories (and how Ever and Zula did too, though neither one of them would openly admit it), he delved deeper into legend until it became all but indistinguishable from truth. He told tales no elf had heard before or would hear again, obscuring his own history with the metaphors of myth, streamlining and embellishing the truth to make it seem less impossible. _Just because it never happened doesn't mean it isn't true_ , Felassan had said. Solas had never grasped the meaning of that saying more fully than he did in those long dark passageways, spinning secrets out in front of them as if words alone were the thread that would guide them out of the labyrinth.

The hours of travel passed more quickly than ever before. Their path was clear and impossible to lose, all the junctions marked with ancient Elvhen writing that unerringly showed Solas the correct way to go. Sometimes they passed through other warehouses or smaller rooms set up as makeshift way stations. It was in one of these small spaces that Zula said, "We should stop for the night." Solas could not be certain if it really was night at all; in the depths of the mountain it was impossible to tell time. All the same, his feet were sore and his eyelids heavy, and he found no reason to object to the suggestion.

They did not build a fire or even pitch the tent. Instead, they laid out their bedrolls on the bare flagstones and ate dried meat and preserved fruits by the green glow of the veilfire torch. Despite his exhaustion, Solas found it difficult to remain still. Zula noticed. "Is something wrong?" she asked him quietly as they cleared the remnants of the simple meal away.

"The Veil is thin here," he said. He cast his gaze around the room, trying to discern the source of his disquiet, until he spotted a globe-like shape tucked into one of the corners. Of course. He had forgotten about the artifacts his agents had so diligently placed in every corner of the world in preparation for the long-ago ritual that had raised the Veil between the Fade and this place. In the ensuing millennia they had gone dormant, their purpose long forgotten.

Zula saw it too, and sensed its power. She got up, approached the artifact, and touched the tip of her staff to its pedestal. Solas nodded at her, and she channeled her magic into it. Immediately he felt the Veil snapping back into alignment, remembering its own purpose even as it rearranged itself into a configuration he would find easier to deal with when the time came to take it all apart again. "Excellent," he said. "The wards are functioning again." Judging by the self-satisfied smile on Zula's face, improving the condition of the Veil pleased her as well. He would have to remember that for later.

The night passed without incident. When they resumed their march, well-rested and with their bellies full for the first time in weeks, Solas felt genuinely hopeful. Soon this long and unwanted diversion would be over. At this pace, they were less than a week's journey from the Imperial Highway. Once they reached it, he would allow himself a few more days to take his leave of the others graciously without making it seem as though he were abandoning them at the first opportunity. Then his real work could begin.

But after a few hours spent trudging down a seemingly endless passageway, he began to feel uneasy again, as if they were being watched. Zula felt it, too. At the front of the party, she stopped, held up a hand, and whispered without turning around, "Do you hear that?"

The others came to a graceless halt behind her. Solas strained to listen and soon made out a patter of hushed, persistent footsteps resonating not far behind them in the tunnel. "Yes," he said.

"I hear it too," said Ever. "What do we do?"

"Keep going," said Zula. "Don't let on that we heard anything."

They started moving again, more slowly and nervously now. Ever risked a glance over his shoulder. "I can't see a thing down here. What do you think is back there?"

Desiderata's voice rang out in reply, cruel and amused in the echoing darkness. "I'm the last decision you'll ever make, Zula."


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zula chooses not to submit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cliffhanger on Monday + a shorter chapter today = a bonus Thursday update! From here on out, I'll probably stick to once a week Mondays, since the remaining eight chapters are all pretty long and dense as we reach the hopefully exciting conclusion of this tale. :D Thanks to everyone who's been commenting and encouraging me lately - it means more to me than you can know!

"Move," said Solas. "Don't look back."

The others complied without question. They were nearly running now, half-dragging Davhalla behind them. Solas could hear the demon matching their speed, all of its previous efforts at stealth forgotten. Its heavy footsteps resonated in the tunnel with a strange shuffle and thud.

"Fuck," panted Ever. "I thought for sure that thing was dead. How did it find us?"

"I don't know how it survived," said Zula. "It must have picked up our trail outside the cache and followed us in."

" _Fuck!_ I knew we should have sealed the door."

"You were the one who wanted to leave it open!"

"This is not the time to argue," Solas said sharply. "If we allow any strong emotion to overtake us, we are giving the demon exactly what it wants."

"You're our resident expert on demons, Solas," said Zula. In her dry, clipped tone, the unspoken _And I find that profoundly suspicious_ was perfectly evident. "How can we defeat this one?"

"If we remain in this passageway, we can't," said Solas. "It will try to pin us down and prevent us from escaping. Then it can do as it pleases to us." He indicated a cluster of directional markings engraved into a nearby brick. "But I see there is another storeroom a few hundred feet ahead of us. We should get there as fast as possible and try to block the door from the tunnels."

"So many schemes and strategies, Zula," Desiderata called, much closer now than before. "None of them will change the fact that you're the only one who can end this." There was a soft sizzling sound from behind them. Unnatural heat and light began to fill the hallway.

"Run!" Zula shouted, and everyone obeyed. Moments later, a deafening roar split the quiet and a blistering wave of heat bathed Solas's back as a fireball exploded just behind him. Desiderata had launched the spell to taunt them rather than to kill them, but it still caused a general panic amongst the group. Solas sprinted, the others temporarily forgotten, all of his strength devoted to reaching the storeroom. Behind him, someone was gasping for breath in terror. _Where is the demon?_ He tried not to think about what might happen if Desiderata caught up.

One by one, all four elves emerged into a room virtually identical to the one through which they had entered the labyrinth the day before. Like many of the others, it was full of preserved food and precious metals and useless weapons and another disquietingly tall pile of magical munitions. The corridor they had just exited lit up with another bright blast of magic. The floor vibrated, and the cache echoed with the sound of falling rocks. "Desiderata stole your idea," muttered Ever. "We're trapped."

"Then this is where we make our stand," said Zula as she pulled up a barrier around herself and the rest of the party. Solas hastily did the same.

Ever knelt beside Davhalla and briefly ruffled her hair. "Hide yourself, _da'len_ ," he said. She nodded and scurried into an empty alcove as he nocked an arrow with shaking hands and aimed it at the mouth of the tunnel. All three of the adults understood the circumstances and the only possible plan without need for debate or discussion. They would have only a brief window in which to strike while Desiderata got its bearings in the new space. If they could immobilize the demon or inflict massive damage upon it within the span of a few heartbeats, they might be able to defeat it. Victory was improbable, but not necessarily impossible. All Solas could do now was hold on to his faint hope of survival and fight.

Too soon, Desiderata burst into the storeroom, gathering magic around both of its hands. Unbelievably, the demon still wore Isene's body. It was in awful shape. The plunge into the river's icy waters had bruised every exposed inch of skin and blackened most of the extremities with frostbite. Isene's arms and legs were broken and bent almost to the point of uselessness. The demon had been forced to splint them with branches to make them function. Solas could not be sure whose will was holding this unholy union together - Isene's, or Desiderata's.

With a desperate scream of rage, Ever loosed his arrow. It struck the center of Desiderata's chest but bounced off harmlessly, deflected by a barrier. Yet the attack still caught Desiderata's attention. As the demon turned toward Ever, smirking, Zula saw her chance and took it. She slashed fiercely downward with her staff and discharged a bolt of lightning, more potent than any other spell Solas had ever seen her unleash. It enveloped the demon in a paralyzing corona of purple energy.

Solas lifted his own staff and prepared his own single ice spell, hoping to at least prolong Desiderata's immobilization. But the Veil had made him clumsy and slow, and by the time he was ready to cast it the demon was already back in action. Desiderata lifted a hand, and a blast of pure telekinetic force sent both him and Zula careening across the room. He tried to cancel or recall his spell, which was now drastically and hideously off-target, but it was too late. He cried out something that he hoped was a warning, then watched helplessly as the blast of cold shot out of the tip of his staff and bounced, by utter random chance, into the alcove where the magical explosives were stored.

His back hit a wall, the impact sudden and bone-jarring. He tumbled to the floor and rolled into the nearest corner, curling himself into a ball and covering his head with his arms. There was a cracking noise as the clay casings of the munitions shattered from the chill of the misdirected ice bolt. Then, a tremendous explosion, powerful enough to shake the entire room and send stone and plaster raining down all around him. His barrier protected him from the worst impacts. He hoped the others had been equally fortunate.

When the smoke had cleared and the ringing in his ears had subsided, he lifted his head and looked around, coughing and wiping dust from his eyes. Apart from a few scrapes and bruises, he was astoundingly unhurt. It was dark again, and Davhalla's veilfire torch was nowhere to be seen. He extended his palm and, after several attempts, summoned enough focus to create a small globe of light. The alcove in which he had sheltered had been far enough away from the center of the blast to remain mostly intact - yet another testament to ancient Elvhen engineering. But its entrance was barricaded by a pile of rubble three-quarters of the height of the ceiling. He was trapped even more thoroughly now.

In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed black curly hair. Zula was in the alcove with him, lying very still beneath the debris. Fighting down panic, he crawled over to her and began to clear the stones away from her prone form. Soon she let out a groan and lifted her head. Blood oozed down one side of her face from a gash in her scalp, and a falling rock had blackened one of her eyes, but for the most part her own barrier seemed to have protected her. Relief washed over her features as she recognized him. "Thank Mythal's mercy you're alive."

 _She had nothing to do with it._ "Where are the others?"

"I don't know."

Solas raised his voice. "Ever? Davhalla? Can you hear me?"

"We're alive," Ever said from somewhere out of sight, his voice shaky and slurred. "Davhalla is with me. I think she hit her head. She isn't conscious, but she's breathing."

"You don't sound so good yourself," said Zula.

"A column or something fell on top of me. I'm stuck underneath it. I can't move my legs." Ever sounded more perplexed than frightened or in pain. _A bad sign,_ Solas thought.

"Solas and I aren't badly hurt," said Zula. "We just need to dig ourselves out. Hold on, Ever. We're coming to you."

"That would be a very bad idea," Desiderata said from the other side of the mound of rock.

Zula bit her lip and blinked rapidly, trying to maintain her composure. "Doesn't this thing ever die?" she mumbled.

"Your power is waning, demon," Solas said, projecting a calm he did not feel. "I saw the condition of your body when you entered this chamber. It had likely sustained fatal damage even before the explosion." _The explosion I caused._ "You will not be able to go on animating it for long."

"It's true, this body is dying," said Desiderata. "All the more reason for me to resort to drastic measures. You know, I found a few munitions that didn't blow. I'm holding one in each hand right now. If you or Zula starts to move those rocks without making a deal with me first, I'll drop these bombs and kill you all."

"You wouldn't," said Ever, not sounding remotely confident in his assertion. "You'd die too."

"If I lose my physical form, I return to the Fade and tempt someone else another day. Can you and your friends say the same?"

"You're bluffing."

Solas closed his eyes and let his chin fall against his chest. For mere seconds, he peeked into the Fade to glimpse what lay beyond the mounds of debris. Desiderata lay slumped against a half-toppled pillar, its bloody, splintered legs splayed out in front of it. Isene's body was too mangled to even sit upright. And yet in each half-crushed hand, the demon held an explosive charge just inches above the hard ground. The column at its back may well have been the only thing keeping the ceiling from caving in. Quickly he came back to himself. "It isn't," he said.

Zula did not bother to ask him how he knew. "What do you want?" she asked Desiderata wearily.

"The same thing I've always wanted, Zula. I want you, in fulfillment of the bargain your Keeper tried so hard to break. Give in to me. Offer me your body. In exchange, your friends will go free. You know there is no other way."

"I'm no fool, demon. I know you won't hold to your end of the bargain once you have me."

"And I swear to you that I will. It's not in my nature to break a promise. The others are not of Vunlanaris. They are not what I am owed. But you can still save them, if you accept your destiny and give yourself to me."

"Any way we could talk you into taking Solas instead?" asked Ever in a hard, insistent tone.

"You cannot be serious, Ever," said Solas.

"Sorry," Ever said weakly. "Zula is better at magic than you. We need her skills. I think one of you needs to consider taking the deal. I'm not seeing another way out."

"No," said Zula, loudly enough for all of them to hear. And then, almost inaudibly, her lips moving through the well-worn words of a mantra that only she and Solas could discern: _"Ele Dirtha'var'en'vhen: amelanen or eolas'laim, virelanen or vir'u. Ele fel'ala or Elvhen'an, i tel'sal juvaslasir."_ She squared her shoulders, her jaw firmly set, her green eyes dark with fear. _Suledin,_ thought Solas. "I will not give up my free will to you, Desiderata. Not after I've come this far. I don't care if there isn't any other way. I'll _make_ another way."

"Then you will die," said Desiderata.

"So will you," said Zula. She motioned for Solas to come closer to her and whispered in his ear, "If there's anything else important you haven't told me, now would be a good time."

"We are not strong enough, separately or together, to defeat this being," he whispered back.

"I know. Can we trick it? Sneak away from it somehow? You know more than you let on, Solas. If anyone can find another solution to this mess, it's you."

"You have made up your mind to keep fighting it? No matter what?"

She swallowed hard and gave a brief, curt nod. "For as long as I have to."

 _And I believe her,_ he realized with a shock. Since he had first heard Desiderata's laughter echoing in the tunnel, he had largely accepted their doom as a foregone conclusion. But the strength of will she displayed, her utter refusal to bow to the demon's desires, made him ask himself whether one potential strategy, formerly discarded as unthinkably difficult to implement and not worth considering, might be possible after all. It was still risky, almost unimaginably so, but every other path he could envision ended in defeat and death. And he owed it to her and to the others to do everything he could to try to clean up some small fraction of the mess he had made. He met Zula's eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

"Then follow my lead." Solas raised his voice again, making sure Desiderata could hear him. "We would bargain with you, spirit, but this is not the proper place. Our flesh pains us - as does yours, undoubtedly. It tempts us to agree to terms that are not in our best interest. If you will put your weapons down, Zula and I will meet you in the Fade."

"As you wish," said Desiderata, sounding surprised. "But hurry. If I catch you trying to flee after I cross the Veil, I will destroy you."

"I would expect nothing less," said Solas.

From the other side of the rock pile he heard the soft clink of Desiderata setting down the munitions as it had agreed. Then, silence. "Are you there?" he asked, but there was no reply. He whispered urgently to Zula, "Set a ward around us right now. Like the ones you make at camp." She lifted her staff and began to work.

"What are you doing?" Ever demanded. "You said demons are much more powerful in the Fade!"

"They are, it's true. But so are we."

"Solas, Zula, wait! You can't go into the Fade! You can't just leave me and Davhalla here!"

He ignored Ever's protests. "Thank you," he said, switching to Elvhen as Zula's ward settled around them. There was a slim chance that Desiderata might have allies listening in, and he couldn't risk Ever being able to give this plan away if it did. "Now we can speak without being overheard. Even in the Fade, we cannot hope to fight this demon directly and win. Our only chance is to convince it to change - to let go of its corruption and to become the spirit it once was, before desire twisted it. I need to you to do exactly as I say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Ele Dirtha'var'en'vhen: amelanen or eolas'laim, virelanen or vir'u. Ele fel'ala or Elvhen'an, i tel'sal juvaslasir. = We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.  
> suledin = endurance


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Zula make their last stand against Desiderata.

Desiderata was waiting for them when they entered the Fade. It floated in the center of a dark, cramped cavern lit in shades of fiery red - a twisted, menacing version of what the natural caves that had become Fen'Harel's caches might have been before the People had reshaped them. Much to Solas's relief, the demon wore its true form in this place, all sharp horns and plump lips and lavender skin and exaggerated curves. Speaking with it while it wore Isene's body would have been distracting to say the least. _Facing the person who killed you will do that._

"You tried to hide from me," Desiderata said with a smirk. "It won't work."

"Oh, do you mean Zula's ward?" said Solas. "We all knew a confrontation was imminent. Can you blame us for wanting to discuss our strategy privately?"

"Whatever you said or did doesn't matter," said Desiderata. "You both were fools to come here. The Fade is mine. You are not welcome in it. You've only made it easier for me to destroy you."

"We shall see," said Solas.

"You arrogant, self-important bastard. I know exactly what you are. Isene told me. You never change, do you? Except for the worse. You're weak. Pathetic. You can barely even manage two spells anymore. What makes you think you have any prayer of defeating me?"

"This does," said Zula, and cast her own spell.

A fine mesh dome of shimmering golden light descended around Desiderata. Solas felt some of his worry and terror release their grip on his guts. Although he had not yet regained enough of his magical ability to contain Desiderata within the Fade, he had not forgotten how to cast the spell to accomplish it. Even if he himself did not have the necessary power, nothing prevented him from teaching the theory behind the magic to Zula and hoping she could execute it correctly on the first try, when Desiderata was not expecting it. She had cast the spell perfectly, of course. She was not in the habit of failure. Such a magic trick would not end the fight by itself, but it would buy them time to deploy the only weapon left in their shared arsenal.

Desiderata laughed, brittle and forced. "Very clever. You've still accomplished nothing. The instant you leave the Fade, your spell will be broken and I will be free to do as I please."

"Then it's a good thing we don't intend to leave the Fade until we've convinced you to set us free," said Zula.

Desiderata could not disguise its astonishment. "You believe such a thing is possible?"

"You seem to think it's possible to convince me to let myself be possessed by you," said Zula.

"I _know_ it is possible. I have done it to others countless times before."

"Show me."

To Solas, it was as if the whole of the Fade was holding its breath. The entirety of his desperate, last-ditch plan hinged upon keeping Desiderata talking as much as it did upon the strength of Zula's will. They could not defeat the demon by force of arms or by the power of their magic. Their only chance was, effectively, to talk it to death. If Desiderata chose to ignore them, they were as good as doomed.

But no spirit, even a corrupted one, could deny its own nature so easily. Solas exhaled quietly in relief when Desiderata said, "It's really quite simple, Zula. You've spent so long running from me when I only want to help you. Let me in, and you will never have to be hungry or cold or frightened again. You will never be alone. I'll take care of you."

"The same way you took care of your current body?" Zula said, but Solas could hear the vulnerability hidden behind the bluster. _She wants to belong somewhere,_ he thought. _Desiderata knows her well enough to tempt her with such a desire._

"I would never have needed to subject my flesh to such punishment if you hadn't chosen to resist me. When you give in to me, the physical needs of my current host won't matter anymore. Her flesh was only ever an expedient tool for me. You're different, Zula."

"So you say," Solas interjected. In many ways this battle with Desiderata was Zula's to win or lose. He could bring her into the Fade and teach her how to trap the demon, but in the end it was her free will at stake, not his. If he made himself too much of a nuisance, it might anger Desiderata and prevent Zula from making any progress with the demon. But he could still try to guide the conversation toward the most productive avenues of inquiry. "Many spirits get along perfectly well without a body. You have yet to explain why it is so necessary for you to take one. What do you really want from us, Desiderata?"

For the first time since they had entered the Fade, Desiderata hesitated before responding. "No one has asked me that for a very long time."

"Think it over," said Solas. "We're in no hurry."

He had not meant to chide or taunt, but Desiderata seemed to believe otherwise. "If you think I don't know my own mind, you're wrong. You think you're a lot smarter than you are, Solas. You think you're so much better than everyone else because of all your secrets. Well, I know just the one to tell to Zula to make her turn on you."

"You mean you'd tell me he's an agent of Fen'Harel?" asked Zula.

Never before had Solas seen Desiderata so completely caught off guard. The demon froze in midair and stared at Zula with its mouth agape. "How do you know?"

"I asked him, and he told me."

Desiderata sounded utterly dumbstruck. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"It's called trust. You may have heard of it. We may not agree on everything, but he doesn't want to die and I don't want to lose myself to you. I know he's on my side for now."

"If you say so."

"We're working together to change your mind, aren't we?"

"So you claim, but you don't even know what's _in_ my mind."

"Enlighten us, then," said Solas.

"It's simple, really. All you mortals are just so _dull_." Desiderata sighed and began to sway from side to side in the air, as if pacing within the confines of Zula's wards. "Take Clan Vunlanaris, for example. When I met them, they all knew their Keeper was a tyrant and a fool who would lead their clan to its doom. But not one of them was willing to actually _do_ anything about it. I practically had to beg Tarasha to admit her true ambitions and let me help her. If I hadn't come along, they'd probably still all be sitting in that stupid crater waiting to die."

"You may be right," said Zula.

"I knew it." Desiderata bared its teeth. "None of you would have ever taken action if you hadn't believed your very souls were on the line. I won't stand by and watch others make the same mistakes as Vunlanaris. It's in my nature to at least give them a choice in the matter."

"Why do you need a body to give someone a choice?"

Desiderata seemed taken aback. "Because that is the way of this world. You mortals fear and loathe the Fade and everything within it. How am I to convince you there are any meaningful decisions to be made, or grant you the power and knowledge you will need to get what you desire, if I cannot reach you through the Veil?"

"All the same," said Zula, "having a body isn't always a boon. It constrains you. You need to care for it, feed it, keep it warm and protected. Meeting its needs is a constant struggle. I'll never have your kind of freedom. Living in the physical world is my only option. Why would you accept such a limitation if you don't have to?" Solas wondered if she truly believed her own assertions, or if she was only saying what she thought was most likely to convince Desiderata to stand down. He was not sure which option he preferred.

"You make an intriguing point," said Desiderata, sounding only partially convinced.

Zula glanced in Solas's direction, seeking his aid.

"You know most mortals enter the Fade when they dream, whether they are fully conscious of it or not," said Solas. "Surely that should give you ample opportunity to influence them."

"Mages do, at least," said Desiderata. "The others are not aware. They're all so ignorant. Nothing I say ever seems to get through to them."

"Is that what you want, then?" asked Zula. "To be better able to persuade people to change their own lives?"

Desiderata was still and silent for a long time, looking even more trapped within Zula's spell than before. "It doesn't matter," the demon said at last. "I am bound by my obligations to Clan Vunlanaris as much as you are. Tarasha promised you to me, but I am promised to your clan in turn. As long as the clan exists, the terms of the bargain state that I must defend it. Neither one of us can be free from the other. And so I must have you."

"But Clan Vunlanaris doesn't exist anymore." Zula's voice was soft but unmistakably firm, even as it shook with the emotion of what she had just admitted - perhaps not only to Desiderata, but to herself as well. "It died on the night of the massacre at camp. Even if I was initiated, even if I survived, do you really think I can go back to the Dalish after everything that's happened and everything I've learned?" Her eyes locked with Desiderata's, and in their depths Solas saw determination as unshakable and unbreakable as Tarasha had believed the terms of the bargain to be. _Sulevin_ , he thought. "I release you from your oath, Desiderata. There is nothing left here for you to protect. You have your freedom. Go and make use of it."

Zula stumbled backwards and sank to her knees, as if her pronouncement had sapped her of the last of her will. Solas's heart seized at the sight of her despondent, defeated face. She had fled the only home she had ever known, and had fought for acceptance among the Dalish only to be betrayed by them, and in the end had chosen to leave them behind. _She is as alone as I am, in her way._ Desiderata drifted aimlessly inside the ward. "But what am I to do now?" it said, sounding stunned and forlorn.

This, then, was why Solas had come to the Fade. He would step in as Zula wrestled with the magnitude of what she had done and would guide Desiderata through the great change it had begun. "You do whatever you want, of course. You are bound to no one but yourself now."

"Then I will have to find someone new to bargain with," said Desiderata, but its bluster rang false. "I cannot change my nature."

"You have already changed, _lethallan,_ " said Solas, as tenderly as he knew how. "You were not always as you are now. Do you truly think you came into being to chase after scraps of mortal desire? Or are you something more?" He gestured at Zula, who sat motionless on the ground. "You told Zula that you wanted to help mortals to alter their own circumstances - to help them become what they were always meant to be. By all accounts, you often succeeded. If the mortals you tempted could change themselves so readily, why can't you?"

Desiderata's form had begun to blur around the edges, its features melting into each other. "Will you help me?" it said in a frightened and far-away voice.

"Always." He drew as close to the barrier as he dared, so near to its glowing outline that he could feel the magic crackling a hair's breadth away from his skin. "Become what you are, spirit. Become what you have always been." _If only I knew how to do the same._

The transformation that followed happened more quickly than he could perceive. One moment, a horned purple desire demon floated in the center of Zula's ward. The next, it had been replaced by hazy silver light in a vaguely humanoid configuration. When the blur of light spoke, only the barest traces of Desiderata remained. "And so I have."

The terror and worry of the past hour departed in a sudden rush. _We did it._ Zula _did it._ All the same, he had to be certain that the spirit's metamorphosis was complete. "By what name shall I call you now, _lethallan_?" he asked.

"I am Wisdom now," it said, without hesitation and much to Solas's surprise. Corrupted wisdom spirits most often became pride demons, but even so, this was far from the strangest thing he had ever seen in the Fade. He reached out with his arcane senses and was even more astonished to detect no hint of demonic taint. The discovery troubled him even more than any lingering corruption would have. It had taken only a simple spell and a brief conversation to save Wisdom and put an end to the pain it suffered as well as the pain it had caused. How many other so-called demons languished in torment for want of anyone to steer them back to themselves, all because the Veil divided them from the mortals whose perceptions determined the shape of their very existence? This, too, was his doing. Would he ever stop discovering atrocities for which his actions were ultimately responsible?

Resolutely, he set these thoughts aside and crouched down next to Zula. "It's over. Let Wisdom go." She nodded and canceled the warding spell with a wave of her hand, but Wisdom did not leave. "You are free to depart now. You may do as you please."

"Then I will release the body I have borrowed, and travel the Fade until I find the best way to share my wisdom with others," said Wisdom. A tinge of uncertainty crept into its tone. "I have been apart from myself for so long. I have missed so much. Will you return to me? Will you help me to regain what I have lost?"

"Yes." For Solas, it was an easy promise to make. "I shall return to you as soon as I can."

"So will I," said Zula, and Wisdom practically radiated joy.

"Your friends are calling for you on the other side of the Veil," said Wisdom. "Go to them."

"We will," said Solas.

"Be cautious. Powerful forces are moving in the world again. If you must join them to survive, choose your allies carefully." Wisdom's shape was drifting apart into motes of light. "We will meet again soon."

"I hope so."

When Wisdom's form had dissipated into the Fade, Zula lifted her head, still looking mildly dazed. "Is it really over?"

"It is, thanks to you."

The ghost of a smile played across her lips. "Save the flattery for later. Our new friend Wisdom seems to think it's time for us to leave."

"You'll get no argument from me." The dream was already splintering around them, melting back into the raw formless potential from which it had sprung. Solas leaned closer to whisper in Zula's ear. "Wake up."

At the same moment, his own consciousness crossed back through the Veil and seated itself in his body with a shock. The first thing he heard was Ever calling out weakly from the other side of the wall of fallen rocks. "Zula! Solas! Are you there? What's happening?"

"We're here," Zula said hoarsely. "It's over. We're all safe. Solas's plan worked. Hang on, Ever. I'm coming to you."

Without Desiderata threatening them with explosives, there was nothing to stop Zula from quickly clearing away the rubble with both her physical strength and her magic. Solas helped as best as he was able. Soon they had made an opening large enough for both of them to scramble through. They followed Ever's desperate shouts until they found him in one of the alcoves on the other side of the room. Just as he had said, his lower body was pinned under a toppled pillar. His face was pallid and terrified. Davhalla lay very still just beyond his reach.

Zula rushed to Davhalla's side and retrieved a small vial from one of the pouches at her belt - another hoarded healing potion from the Dalish hunters' cave. With trembling hands she yanked out the cork and tipped the contents into Davhalla's mouth. The effect was dramatic and immediate. Davhalla drew in a deep and agonized breath as the potion went to work. She sat bolt upright, all of her injuries cured or at least forgotten for the moment. Her gaze went immediately to Ever lying prone beneath the pillar. " _Babae,_ " she sobbed, scrambling over to him and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

"I need you to stand back, Davhalla," said Zula. "I'm going to lift the column off of Ever. I'll make him better. I promise." Her staff was in one hand, the last healing potion in the other. Solas was about to ask how he could help before something moved faintly in his peripheral vision. Slowly he turned toward what he had glimpsed in the shadows, wishing he could be spared the sight of what he already knew he would find there.

Isene lay slouched against a wall, surrounded by a spreading puddle of red. Her crushed chest heaved slowly as she struggled to draw breath into her ruined lungs. _How can she be alive?_ When Desiderata became Wisdom and left her body, Isene would have felt the full brunt of the injuries from which the demon's power would have previously shielded her. The shock would have killed most people outright. _Only her hatred for me is sustaining her_ , he thought, then chastised himself for entertaining such a ridiculous notion.

Warily, Solas stepped over the unexploded munitions on the floor and knelt beside Isene. Her lifeblood soaked his footwraps, wet and warm and sticky. The explosion he had inadvertently triggered had done no favors to her already battered body. Her shattered limbs had snapped again and again like dry twigs from the force of the blast. He tried not to dwell on the incongruously white bone he could see poking through the rips in her leather armor and her ashen skin. Her face was a mask of torment, caked so thickly with plaster dust and dried blood that Andruil's _vallaslin_ were barely visible beneath the gore. But her eyes, though fogged by pain, still burned within their sockets like embers of rage that only death would extinguish.

Isene had to know her wounds were fatal. Even if Zula had not just used their last healing potions, even if there had been something other than wilderness for miles in any direction around them, even if they had been in Arlathan - such injuries were not curable. She was defeated now. She would not oppose him again. Despite what she had done to him, despite what she had let Desiderata do to her, he took no pleasure in her suffering. It seemed he bore one last duty to his fallen enemy after all.

One of Isene's daggers was still sheathed at her belt - _the same one_ , he distantly realized, _that she buried in my back_. He drew it, loosened what remained of her armor, and pressed the dagger's tip to her exposed torso. She did not, could not struggle against him. Her eyes met his, and in them he saw a sort of dull understanding that he would tell himself later had actually been relief. Her cracked lips pulled backwards into a grimace, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth. Blood and white foam dribbled down her chin. "Dread Wolf take you," she spat. "May he stalk your every step until the last day."

Solas said nothing. With all his strength he drove the blade home, up and underneath Isene's ribs and into her heart. She let out a single soft grunt, and her dying breath left her in a long, slow rattle. When her last involuntary convulsions had ceased, he pulled the dagger out of her side and left it lying across the pulverized fingers of her outstretched hand. Zula and the others were staring at him from across the room. He straightened up and returned to them, not bothering to disguise the grim expression on his face. Isene would never know that the curse she had invoked with her dying words had already come upon him long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> Babae = Daddy


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and his companions plan for the future.

Evening was approaching when Solas led his companions out of the tunnels beneath the Frostback Mountains and back into the frozen wilderness. It had not taken them long to agree to seek out the nearest exit and to leave the dark confines of the unstable, rubble-filled cache behind. Their journey had lost much of its urgency now that Desiderata no longer pursued them, and it seemed prudent to rest and to re-evaluate their plans. Although the cache would have provided shelter and relative safety, none of them had the heart to remain for any longer in the chamber that had almost been their tomb. Before they departed, Solas covered Isene's body with a makeshift cairn of fallen rocks. He would never waste a second in mourning her, but at the very least he owed her something like a decent burial.

The elves' passage beneath the mountains had taken them far from where they had begun. Here, the air was still crisp and cold, but no longer so thin as before. The trees were more plentiful, the terrain flatter and less craggy. The snow through which they walked was wet and heavy instead of fine and powdery. Birdsong and steadily dripping water reverberated all around them, evidence of a gradual but inevitable thaw. It was not only due to the change in elevation; spring was returning to the Frostbacks, just as it had been when Solas first awakened from _uthenera_. How could it be that a year had already passed since that day? It felt like an eternity. How many more years like it would he need to spend in this broken world before he gained the power to restore all the things he had damaged?

Ever shouted in excitement, pulling Solas out of his thoughts. Wildlife was more abundant in this part of the mountains, and a small deer had just darted in front of the group. Ever's reflexes were sharp despite his recent injuries, and in a single smooth motion he readied his bow and loosed a perfectly aimed arrow into the animal's chest. The deer took a half-dozen more staggering steps into the woods before its long, spindly legs gave out beneath it. As Ever drew his hunting knife and approached the fallen creature to finish the job, Solas looked away. He could not help remembering how heavy Isene's dagger had felt in his fist when he had driven the blade into her side. _She was never real,_ Solas reminded himself as Ever waited for the deer to bleed out and Zula murmured a Dalish hunter's prayer. _Don't torture yourself over having ended a life that never should have begun in the first place._ He did his best to ignore how hollow such assertions had started to sound to him lately.

The promise of a hot meal and a good night's sleep impelled the party to make camp at the first acceptable site they could find. They pitched the tent amidst bare trees on the banks of a slowly thawing creek. Zula built up a roaring fire, and the four elves crouched around it to butcher the deer. They worked together in efficient silence until Zula spoke. "We don't all need to go to the clans at Ostagar anymore now that the demon isn't chasing us, you know."

"Correct," said Solas, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt.

"Thanks to what we took out of the cache, we can go anywhere we damn well please," said Ever, gesturing toward his sack full of gems and precious metals. He had somehow kept his grip on the treasure through the entire ordeal.

"And where do you intend to go?" asked Zula.

"Despite my prowess with a bow, I'd rather not live off the land if I don't have to," Ever said with a grin. "Fortunately, we're not far from civilization. I can smell it on the wind." Zula nodded in understanding. Since they had left the tunnels, the breeze had been full of woodsmoke and the mingled scents of humans and livestock living in close proximity. "Now that I've got a choice, I think I'll head for a city somewhere. I'm sure I can find a spot on a caravan once we get to a town. Joining up with the Dalish was always a last resort for me. No offense, Zula."

"None taken."

"Anyway, I was thinking Rivain. I've always wanted to see more of Thedas, and I hear most people there don't have a problem with elves. Or even if they do, it won't be such a problem when they see how much we can pay them." Ever's expression softened as he cast a glance toward Davhalla. "That is, unless Davhalla would rather stay in Ferelden."

Davhalla, who had been stoking the fire, said firmly, "I'm going where you go, _Babae_."

"Oh, look, I think the meat is finished cooking," said Ever. He hastily shifted his gaze away from the others and blinked away tears he couldn't fully conceal.

For a time, all conversation ceased. Everyone devoured the hot, juicy venison and the last of the preserved fruits from the cache, washing the meal down with cold clean water from the stream. A blanket of contentment settled over the humble campsite. "If you don't object, I think I'll join you in town for a while, Ever," said Zula as she wiped her greasy fingers in a patch of snow. "I need to replenish my supplies before I do anything else."

"As do I," said Solas. "It may be wise for all of us to stay together for the time being."

"Then it sounds like we're stuck with each other for a little longer," said Ever with a smile. "Though I can't say I much mind."

Night had fallen by the time the elves finished cleaning up. Ever retired promptly to the tent to sleep off the enervation that was a frequent side effect of healing potions. Davhalla trailed behind him, rubbing her eyes, no doubt similarly exhausted by her own brush with magic. Zula, however, was restive. Solas waited beside the fire as she paced the perimeter of camp, setting the wards once more even though they both knew how unlikely they were to be disturbed here. When she was finished she sat down next to him, cross-legged on the chilly ground with her staff balanced across her lap. "So Ever and Davhalla have made their plans clear," she said softly in Elvhen. Her words were barely audible above the crackling flames. "Where will you go?"

Solas responded in the same tongue. "Not to Ostagar. Not if it is no longer necessary for my survival. I am not Dalish, and I have no friends or relatives there. I can think of no good reason to travel so far. I assume you intend to continue onward once you have taken your leave of us, and meet the Dalish in the south?"

"You assume incorrectly."

"Really? I know you meant what you said about the end of Clan Vunlanaris, but they are not the only clan. You are still Dalish, are you not?"

"I don't know what I am anymore." The flickering firelight temporarily plunged Zula's face into shadow and erased her _vallaslin_ from sight. "And you didn't answer my question. If you won't go to Ostagar, then where? To Rivain with Ever and Davhalla?"

"No. Not Rivain either. I wish our fellow travelers much happiness on the next portion of their journey, but what I want most will not be found there in the east."

"What _do_ you want most, then, Solas?"

Glowing sparks of ash drifted up from the campfire and into the black, starry sky as he watched the flames, contemplating her question and how he might answer it. He had always known exactly what he wanted. What he didn't know was how much of it he could share with her without putting either one of them in danger. He could lie or evade, of course. But after she had trusted him when no one else would, after they had faced so many threats together, he owed her more and better than that.

"I want knowledge," he said at last. "There are so many questions for which I do not yet have the answers. Most of all, I want to understand how this world came to be so full of pain, and what I can do to change it for the better. But in my current state, I lack the power to do anything meaningful about most of the problems I see." He could feel her gaze boring into him. He kept staring at the fire. "For the time being, I think I will stay here, in the Frostbacks. My instincts tell me something important is about to happen - not far from here, and soon. I learned long ago to always trust my own inner wisdom in such matters. I will find a safe place to make my base of operations. I will observe and study current events as they unfold. I will work to bolster my magical abilities, so my spells will not fail me again at an inconvenient time. Later on, I will travel if I must. When I am stronger, when I have gained more insight, I will take what I have discovered and act upon it."

"Thank you for telling me." Zula fell silent again. The pile of firewood they had gathered went on shrinking as it burned. Its smoldering, blackened coals flickered and glowed red and white at the heart of the blaze.

"And what about you?" asked Solas, feeling strangely exposed in the stillness of the moment.

She shifted uncomfortably on the thawing ground. "I'm still deciding. There are questions I need answers to before I can make up my mind."

"What sorts of questions? I will help you if I can."

"Well...I can't get past some of the things Athras told me. He always said you weren't what you seemed."

The chill Solas felt had nothing to do with the cool night air. "And what did Athras think I was?"

"I'm not sure _Athras_ knew what he thought of you, to be honest. When he warned me about you, I asked him for details, or evidence - something more than just a bad feeling. All he would tell me was that you were mad. 'The specifics of his delusions aren't important.' I think those were the words he used." Zula sighed and shook her head ruefully. "I didn't take it too seriously at first. He offered me so little justification I thought he was mostly just sick of arguing with you. Even so, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind." She met Solas's eyes again. "Are you? Mad, I mean?"

"If I were, would I be sane enough to tell you?"

"You have a point," she said, flashing a momentary smile. "But you know what I mean. I know you have many secrets. You proved as much when you led us to the cache. Those secrets might have worried Athras, but they don't worry me. You also proved you'll share them when the time is right." _She has more faith in me than I have in myself_ , he thought. "Only your intentions matter to me, Solas. Ultimately, I think they're what mattered to Athras, too. So what I need to know is this: If I go on trusting you, will you do me harm?"

"Of course not," Solas said without hesitation, but he had to pause for thought before he spoke again. He did not want to lie to her, not now. It was well past time that he told her as much as he could. "But I am still guided by Fen'Harel's principles. So I will go on seeking freedom and truth above all else, even though it will certainly lead me into many dark places."

"And what principles are those? I assume you don't mean betraying the gods and locking them away in the Fade for all eternity."

Once again he sensed the thin ice of the conversation, the delicate balance between them that any one of his words might upset. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Actually…"

Zula's eyes were avid and intent. "Go on."

 _She asked me for it._ "I have already told you Fen'Harel was not the malevolent trickster the Dalish think they remember. I believe I also mentioned the gods themselves are not as the Dalish claimed they were, either. In my clan I was taught that they were powerful mages who abused their magic and used it to subjugate others. They were known as the Evanuris. The Evanuris unlocked the secrets of reality, and they used the knowledge they gained to become tyrants. Fen'Harel was equally powerful, and once even called himself their ally. But in time he saw the cruelty of his fellow mages for what it was. He started a revolution among the elves whom the Evanuris had enslaved. With their help, he overthrew them and locked them away for eternity. This is the true face of the so-called gods the Dalish worship."

Solas paused, fearing that Zula might become panicked or enraged - but instead she only looked thoughtful. "Another side of the same story," she said. "Fen'Harel's followers use it to make sense of the world. Just like the Dalish do."

"Perhaps - but I have found no evidence to contradict this particular version. That is why we follow Fen'Harel. He reminds us that a life not lived freely is a wasted life. It is not always outside forces that enslave us. Sometimes, we are enslaved by our own false beliefs. They shackle us as long as we remain unable or unwilling to examine them. And so I will go on seeking knowledge and enough power to use it, to ensure that I remain free - and that everyone else does, too."

"'Never again shall we submit,'" said Zula, as much to herself as to him.

"Nor shall I. The Dalish share that much with Fen'Harel after all, as much as it might pain them to admit it. I am truly sorry you were lied to."

"For something to be a lie, the person telling it has to know it's not true. My clan certainly didn't."

"You have a point. Still, it must be very difficult for you to hear this."

"It would be, if I were certain you were right. I'm not." He bit back an objection and let her keep speaking. "I don't know what I believe anymore. But I do know that from now on, I'm through accepting things on blind faith. I need to know the truth of the world for myself before I decide what to do about it." She took a deep breath. "And that's why I want to go with you."

It was among the last things Solas had expected to hear from her, and he was unable to disguise his surprise. "What? Why?"

"You said it yourself: you want knowledge. I want it, too. I don't know who you are or what you're trying to do. Maybe you're every bit as mad as Athras thought you were. But I believe that for now, we share some small part of our vision in common. You know some of the things I want to learn. There are things I can teach you, too. I want to travel with you and share our discoveries, at least for now. Will you let me? Please?"

Zula was leaning toward him now, haloed by the glow of the fire. In her _vallaslin_ -scarred face he saw a glimmer of the same certainty that had sustained her in the fight against Desiderata. She would not be easily dissuaded from this course of action. _Sulevin, you do not know what you are asking me,_ he thought. A thousand excuses flooded his mind, along with hundreds of reasons to reject her, both bad and good. But when he finally opened his mouth to give her one of them, he surprised himself when he said instead, "I would welcome your companionship, Zula."

"And I yours," she said, looking relieved. She rose stiffly from the ground. "We should both get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day."

"Yes," he said without moving.

"Good night, Solas. And thank you. For everything."

"Good night."

Her footsteps crunched softly in the melting snow as she walked away to the tent. Solas stayed next to the fire until it burned down into embers, thinking of all the things he had said and left unsaid. He still was not entirely certain why he had chosen to trust Zula so quickly or so profoundly, and he could only hope that their continued alliance would not prove dangerous. He had a terrible feeling that neither one of them would be so fortunate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas: THE ELVHEN GODS ARE EVIL AND ALL YOUR BELIEFS ARE WRONG.  
> Zula: Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man.
> 
> Anyway, translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):  
> sulevin = certainty


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas says his farewells.

The elves broke camp late the next morning after a long and restorative sleep, relieved that neither unforgiving cold nor the threat of attack was spurring them desperately onward. After a leisurely breakfast, they started off in the direction of the settlement they had detected the day before. They all knew this would be the last leg of their journey, and any haste in their pace owed entirely to eagerness at what came next rather than the fear of falling into Desiderata's hands. The sun had just passed its zenith when a road came into view. It wound around the mountain along the crest of a ridge, and its rough surface was deeply marked with the ruts of wagon wheels. "Shit, I haven't seen one of these in months," said Ever with relief as they began to follow the broad dirt track.

The road was uneven and muddied by the melting snow, but it still allowed for much faster travel than breaking a path through the forest did. Soon, Solas heard swarming hoofbeats and bleating livestock up ahead. He and the others slowed down and waited until a human shepherd came into view, driving her flock around a bend in the pathway with the aid of a herding mabari. When she saw the travelers, her eyes went wide with amazement. They must have made for a bizarre sight indeed: four battered and filthy elves heavy-laden with supplies and weapons, emerging from the depths of the wild with every grueling mile of their dangerous journey plainly written in their battle-weary posture.

Solas held out his empty hands, trying to appear unassuming and non-threatening. "Well met, ser," he said, making sure that his use of the trade tongue was flawless. "My companions and I are in search of lodging. Is there a village nearby?"

The shepherd leaned on her crook, her wariness gradually diminishing. "Overlook is just beyond the next switchback. Just got done selling some lambs at the market there myself. You folks on your way to the Divine Conclave?"

"What's that?" asked Ever.

The shepherd shrugged. "Ain't exactly sure, other than some big to-do happening further on down that slope. You know, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes." She jerked her head back in the same general direction from which she had come. "Heard somebody saying back at market that the Divine's trying to get the mages and templars to play nice with each other again. That's all I know. I just figured you might be headed there on account of the staves and all."

Solas smiled guilelessly. "We're not headed anywhere until we've had a warm meal, a hot bath, and a good night's sleep in a real bed."

"You'll find that in Overlook for sure. Safe travels, friends."

"To you as well."

The shepherd clicked her tongue at the mabari, and it urged the sheep forward with barks and gentle nips at their hindquarters. The flock poured past the four elves like a river flowing around a stone. As soon as the shepherd was out of earshot, Zula turned to the others and said, "The next time anybody asks, we're on our way to the Divine Conclave."

"You'll get no argument from me," said Solas. Ever and Davhalla nodded in nervous agreement.

They met no one else on the road until they reached Overlook, a village populated by perhaps a hundred humans. True to its name, it perched on the edge of a windswept cliff that afforded its inhabitants a rather dazzling view of the Frostback Mountains and their foothills on the other side of a broad valley. A weathered stone mill squatted at the edge of a rushing stream swollen with snowmelt. The constant creaking of its water wheel was barely audible above the roar of the waterfall that plunged over the edge of the cliff just beyond the mill pond. As they entered the village, Solas paused to take in the vista. Farther down the mountainside was an imposing white marble structure that must have been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Its mixture of ancient architecture and new materials suggested that it had been recently rebuilt. Around it, swarms of people came and went. _There have to be thousands of them,_ he thought, impressed.

As the Conclave's attendees streamed up to the temple from the town just below it, Solas felt a prickle on the back of his neck that stemmed from something beyond simple amazement at the size of the crowd. Although the shepherd had known little of the purpose of the Divine Conclave, it was clear from both her vague description and the magnitude of the gathering itself that this meeting was greatly important. If Corypheus continued to be drawn to this region of Thedas - and Solas knew that he would be, thanks to the compulsion placed upon the orb - there was no way he could ignore the Conclave for long. He would come here, and soon, if he had not arrived already. And when he showed himself, Solas would be ready to snatch the unlocked orb from his motionless and cooling palm. The culmination of all of his plans was at hand. Yet he felt no triumph, only a vague sense of impending completion mingled with unexpected regret. This entire scheme had proven more complicated than he had dreamed possible, and its cost higher than he had ever intended. The mistakes he had made along the way were staggering, and only time would tell if he was even now continuing to make more.

For the moment, though, rest and shelter were his paramount concerns, just as they were for the others. Overlook's only inn was kept by a surly, grizzled human who regarded the unexpected arrival of four elves with open suspicion. But when Ever handed over a walnut-sized gemstone from the heavy backpack of spoils from the cache, the innkeeper's attitude changed instantaneously to fawning servility. He helped to carry the elves' baggage up the stairs to a large, gabled room with a small fireplace and two feather beds. Then, wrinkling his nose, he politely suggested that they might want to make use of the bathhouse next door.

The baths were humble, dark, and cozy - nothing compared to the opulent springs and pools of Elvhenan, but more than sufficient to the task of washing away the grime and exhaustion of the long trek through the mountains. A washerwoman crept in to take away their soiled clothing and left behind scratchy but clean burlap robes for them to wear in the interim. Ever pressed a silver ingot into her palm, and she nearly wept with gratitude. Her reaction unnerved Solas. The people of this village were not accustomed to seeing riches in such quantity, particularly not in the pockets of elves. Their newfound wealth, useful as it was, also attracted undue attention. None of them would be able to stay in Overlook for long if they wanted to keep a low profile.

They all soaked in the water until it went tepid and grey, then put on the robes and returned to the inn. A hearty dinner was waiting for them there, beef and potatoes and carrots and brown bread with honey, and mugs of ale to slake their thirst. A minstrel was beginning to strum her lute as they finished the meal, and villagers and travelers alike were trickling in to eat and drink and dance and gossip and dice. Ever looked longingly at the increasingly rowdy atmosphere, then said, "I'm too tired to enjoy this. I'm going to bed." The others agreed, for which Solas was privately grateful. The more time they spent among the locals, the more likely it became that some misstep or careless word could expose them to new dangers.

They all went upstairs together. After laying a fire in the hearth, Ever and Davhalla curled up together in one of the beds and fell asleep almost immediately. Solas lay down in the other when he saw that Zula was not yet ready for slumber. The room had a rickety vanity with a small mirror of burnished metal, and she sat down in front of it, silhouetted in the glow from the fireplace, to work a wooden comb through her tangled, still-damp hair. Then she began the laborious process of braiding it anew. The warmth of the blankets and the softness of the mattress must have been stronger than any of the swirling thoughts in Solas's troubled mind, because the next thing he remembered was the weight of Zula's body settling down next to his.

He swung one leg over the side of the bedstead, preparing to curl up in front of the fireplace and leave the bed for her, but she put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Stay." He said nothing, but made himself comfortable again as she burrowed under the covers and rolled over onto her side, pressing her back against his. Her body heat mingled with his own and he smelled the faint floral perfume of the soap she had used in the bath, heard her breathing become deep and even as she descended rapidly into sleep. He could share this with her, at least: warmth and comfort and rest, a momentary bubble of peace in which none of the secrets he still kept mattered.

The next morning, Ever was the first to wake. "I'm going to find us a way out of here, Davhalla," he said as he donned the clean clothing that the washerwoman had left outside the door and filled his pockets with gems and gold. He was down the stairs and gone before any of the others had even begun to contemplate getting out of bed. Eventually, they rose, dressed, and made their way down into the inn's common room to scoop bubbling porridge out of the large iron pot hung over the cookfire. Midway through breakfast, Ever burst through the door of the inn with both his spirits and his purse seeming lighter. "Looks like our wagon leaves at noon," he said to Davhalla. "Come on. We'd best get packed."

Ever explained his plans as the group hurriedly divided their supplies, making sure that everyone had the things they most needed. A merchant on his way back to Redcliffe had agreed to make room for Ever and Davhalla in the back of his cart when he saw the ridiculous sum Ever was willing to pay. In Redcliffe, they would join up with a caravan bound for Denerim, and from there buy passage on a ship plying the trade routes of the Amaranthine Ocean that would take them up the coastline to Llomeryn or Dairsmuid. It was a lengthy and taxing journey even with all the comforts their wealth could buy, and not without hazards. But it promised freedom so great that Solas could hardly fault them for choosing it.

In the end, Ever and Davhalla laid claim to the bow and arrows, their bedrolls, a few spare cloaks, some minimal survival gear to be used in an emergency, and the bulk of the treasure. At first, Ever tried to distribute the valuables in four equal portions, but Solas held up a hand to stop him. "Thank you, Ever, but the rest of you should take my share." He gathered up a few handfuls of gold and silver and put them in one of the pouches at his belt. "This is all I'll need."

Ever looked confused. "You don't have to be a martyr, Solas. This was meant for all of us. Why don't you want it?"

 _Because when my plan succeeds, this world will cease to be and all the gems and precious metals ever mined won't mean a thing_. "It won't be of much use where I'm going. I will be far from civilization much of the time, and carrying it might make me a target for bandits. You and Davhalla stand to gain a much greater benefit from it. Zula, too, if she so chooses."

"I don't want it either," said Zula. She took a little more from the pile than Solas had, but still left the bulk of it spread out in front of Ever. "I'll be traveling with Solas, at least for a while. It stands to reason that if he doesn't need much money, I don't either."

"Shouldn't you at least take some for later?" asked Ever, now even more perplexed. "Just in case you decide to split up?"

"I'll get by," Zula said firmly. "I always do."

They finished packing and proceeded to the market square to meet the merchant who would take Ever and Zula to Redcliffe. Solas knew this would be the last time all four of them were together. He kept his distance as Zula said her farewells, fiddling with the pack he still carried, not wanting to intrude on private moments. When Zula stepped back, wiping away tears, Davhalla did not hesitate to approach Solas. "I told Zula to keep you out of trouble," she said, peering up at him with an expression of utter seriousness.

Solas chuckled. "I'm sure she'll do everything she can." He knelt down to look Davhalla in the eye. "And will you and Ever take good care of each other, too?"

"Yes. He's my _babae_ now so we have to."

"I am happy to hear it. And do you also remember what I told you in the woods, about the _vallaslin_ and making choices for yourself?"

"I remember. I won't listen to anybody, not even you!"

"Close enough." Affectionately, he ruffled her hair as he straightened up, and to his surprise she responded by giving him a fast, fleeting hug. " _Dareth shiral, da'len_."

" _Dar'atisha_ ," she responded shyly, and hurried back to the wagon.

Now it was Ever's turn to approach. "Last chance to change your mind and come with us, Solas. The merchant said we'd all fit in his cart if we were friendly. We _are_ friendly, right?"

"We are," said Solas with a genuine smile. "As much as I appreciate the offer, I still must decline it. I have too much to learn here."

"Zula said the same thing." Ever's grin softened into something more earnest and affectionate. "Thank you for everything. You saved all of us."

Solas shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "It wasn't only me. We all had a hand in saving ourselves."

"You took risks the rest of us didn't," Ever said quietly. He had to be remembering how Solas had insisted upon interrupting the ritual that would have sacrificed Zula to Desiderata, how he had told everyone about the rediscovered cache and the tunnel that had led them to freedom, how he had suggested their method of defeating the demon. "It means a lot."

"It was the right thing to do," said Solas, still uncertain of whether that was true.

After a brief and somewhat awkward pause, Ever abruptly swept Solas into a tight embrace that only ended when the merchant called out, "Pack it in, elves, we're leaving." Ever clapped Solas firmly on the shoulder as he let go, then motioned for Davhalla to join him in the back of the cart.

Ever and Davhalla waved vigorously and called out their final good-byes as the merchant took up the reins and began to drive his team of horses forward. "We'll never forget you!" shouted Ever, and Solas felt his back stiffen and his flesh crawl. _But you will,_ he thought.

In one tightly clenched fist Solas still held the clay spell tokens, now inert and devoid of magic, that he had secretly taken from the cache. Fen'Harel's rebellion had frequently needed to operate in absolute secrecy, which often led to the need to alter the memories of those who might bear tales back to the Evanuris. In Elvhenan, everyone had been able to work magic, but some elves had still been more skilled at it than others. Memory spells were tricky and required a deft touch; not everyone was practiced enough to work them at a moment's notice, especially not the freed slaves who made up the bulk of Fen'Harel's troops. Thus, the spell tokens, enchanted by ancient masters with charms that would make a target forget the things they had seen. The technique had been lost to the ages until now.

Ever and Davhalla would remember their pasts and how they had met, and their escape from Clan Vunlanaris, and their flight through the mountains, and Desiderata and its ultimate defeat, and the bond of affection they had forged, of course. The enchantment was not so strong as that, and Solas was not so cruel. They might even remember Zula, if they tried. But they would forget almost everything about the strange bald elf who had joined them on their journey. They would lose track of the details of his story and assign his actions to others. _I had no choice but to do this_ , he thought as his stomach clenched with self-loathing. He did not know what dangers they might face if anyone learned of their involvement with him and started asking probing questions. No, let them have their adventure, and revel in their wealth, and find happiness with each other in blissful ignorance until the moment that the Veil came down and tore their reality apart. Until then, let them be safe and free from the suffering that their memories of him might bring. It would be better for all of them this way.

The merchant's cart bumped through the mud, then settled into the well-worn ruts that would carry it to Redcliffe. Ever and Davhalla were turning away, shifting their attention to the road ahead of them as they slowly began to forget what they were leaving behind. The charm was working already. Zula padded up beside him with her eyes still misty. "I hope they get to Rivain safely," she said. "Do you suppose we'll ever see them again?"

"No," said Solas as the cart receded into the distance. "I don't think we will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):  
> Dareth shiral. = Safe journey.  
> Dar'atisha. = Go in peace.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas realizes the depth of his mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for this chapter, you guys. /o\

"That was a waste of time," said Zula to Solas as they emerged from the humble cabin of Overlook's only moneychanger. The taciturn dwarf inside had just failed miserably at converting more than a fraction of their gems and precious metals into less ostentatious currency.

"This village is no Val Royeaux," said Solas. "That dwarf probably hadn't seen so much gold in one place since he left Orzammar. At least he was able to give us enough to get by on for now. We can exchange the rest elsewhere."

"Fair enough."

They walked back toward the inn together. After Ever and Davhalla had departed for Rivain, Solas and Zula had agreed to spend at least a few more nights in Overlook to prepare for whatever came next. Ever's extravagant overpayment had secured their room and board more or less indefinitely, and Solas was reluctant to stray far from the site of the Divine Conclave until he had seen whether his hunch about Corypheus would be borne out. There was also the matter of how much to tell Zula about the next stage in his plans. That would likely prove to be the most difficult aspect of the entire mess.

It had been a small mercy that nothing had yet happened to force such a challenging conversation. The day Ever and Davhalla left, Solas and Zula had spent the afternoon and evening shopping for supplies at the market, reorganizing their packs, and mending their gear in companionable silence. That night, after dinner in the common room, Solas had settled down in the bed Ever and Davhalla had vacated, expecting Zula to claim the other. Instead, to his surprise, she crawled in beside him once again. Had he thought it were an attempt at seduction, he would have put an end to it firmly but politely - but she did not seem to want the sort of comfort she had sought and received from Athras. Theirs was a different kind of closeness, and he could hardly fault her - or himself - for wanting to be shielded from loneliness for as long as possible.

In truth, he did not know what they were to each other, or what they might become. Once, long ago, he might have thought of her as his apprentice, but that title hardly seemed fitting when her skill in magic so greatly exceeded his own. She was not his agent either, though perhaps someday she would be. After he retrieved his unlocked orb from Corypheus, he would need to explain himself. Before then, he would try to gain her trust, to be persuasive enough to convince her of the rightness of his cause when the moment came to reveal it. Her freedom of choice and of belief remained paramount; he would force nothing upon her, nor coerce her into any particular course of action. All the same, he dearly hoped she would still call herself his ally when his secrets were finally revealed.

Zula's voice called him back to the present moment as the path they followed wound along the edge of Overlook's cliffs. "What do you suppose is going on down there?" she asked, pointing to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"I believe the Conclave is now well underway," said Solas. "There is very little activity around the temple as compared to yesterday. All of the participants must be inside."

"Do you think it's worth trying to get any closer?"

"Perhaps, though I prefer to leave Andrastian matters to the humans. Their religious debates hardly affect me."

Zula laughed in disbelief. "But they absolutely do. The Chantry wields enormous power in this part of Thedas. Living with it is like an elf trying to share a bed with a dragon. If you lose track of its movements, you risk being crushed. I guarantee you there are Dalish spies inside the temple right now for that very reason."

"Intriguing. I didn't know the Dalish practiced espionage."

"Clan Vunlanaris didn't, but not all of us are so insular. If you've met one Dalish clan, then you've met one Dalish clan."

"I see."

"Don't worry - I'm not planning to go in there. But I thought we might hike down the slope and see if we can get someone to-"

Solas would never know what Zula's plan would have been. A tremendous explosion drowned out her words mid-sentence. Its force knocked them both flying. One moment, they were about to turn the corner to the inn; the next, he was staring up into grey clouds for a confusing fraction of a second before landing painfully in a snowbank on the side of the path. The ground shook violently beneath him. When the tremors finally stilled, the world around him was utterly, terribly silent except for a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Wincing, he picked himself up out of the snow. Zula was getting up as well, seemingly unhurt. He looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the blast, but he saw no fire, no rubble, no sign of a detonation. Nothing seemed out of place...

Until he saw the hole in the sky.

The sight of it weakened his knees and turned his bowels to water, set his heart pounding and his skin crawling with horror. A tear in the Veil, limned in green light and larger than any he had ever seen, stretched in a broad arc across the horizon like a terrible parody of a rainbow. Spheres of bright energy plummeted out of it, two and three at a time and at a steady pace. With a start he realized they were spirits - or rather, they were demons now. These innocent and unsuspecting beings, unexpectedly pulled from the Fade and into the overwhelming fear and pain of the physical world, were helpless to defend themselves against madness and corruption. Already he could hear screams echoing off the mountainside as the few surviving attendees of the Conclave fled from the newborn demons or joined battle against them. All of these spirits would suffer and die at the hands of the mortals against whom they had no choice but to lash out. Even these necessary acts of self-defense would only bring more suffering and death - and thus more demons - in their wake. Another vicious and unending spiral had begun.

The rift centered above the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The building had been virtually obliterated in the explosion. Only a few walls and towers remained standing, surrounded by smoldering rubble. He squinted into the clouds of billowing smoke. Much of the debris had been flung outwards from the temple. The structure had not collapsed in on itself, as it would have after being struck by a projectile from outside. Whatever had destroyed it had come from within it.

Cautiously, he probed the rift with his magic, a sick feeling of inevitability already building in his gut. Some part of him had known, or at least suspected, the true cause of the devastation below the instant the blast had tossed him into the wet snow. So he was able to keep his face expressionless and impassive when he found the toppled temple soaked in an intricate, barely-contained magic that he knew as intimately as the contours of his own thoughts. The power of the orb - _his_ power - had done this. It would not rest until it was finished ripping the Veil into shreds. He could not detect Corypheus anywhere in the chaos, but he could not sense the orb itself either. What was happening?

Someone tapped his shoulder. He recoiled from the touch before he realized that it was only Zula trying to get his attention. Her face had gone ashen and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. Her pulse fluttered rapidly in her throat like a caged bird. Although he was still mostly deaf, he could tell by her gestures and the shape of her lips as they moved that she wanted to get closer to the epicenter of the explosion - to investigate, certainly, but more than that to help. "Not without our gear," he shouted, and she nodded in agreement.

They hurried back to the inn, passing what seemed like every person in Overlook on their way. Some clung to each other weeping, or stared wordlessly down at the ruined temple with their mouths agape. Others had fallen to their knees in the snow, crying out prayers to the Maker that were audible even over the continued ringing in his ears. They wove through the crowd and felt the eyes of the humans upon them, and Solas thought, _Good._ Let the villagers see these two strange elves again and know by their stunned expressions that they had nothing to do with the opening of the rift.

The inn's front door hung ajar. Its common rooms were completely vacant. Solas and Zula took the creaking stairs to their room two at a time and hastily gathered up the last of their supplies. By now, enough of Solas's hearing had returned for him to carry on a proper conversation. "You seem to have a plan," he said to Zula. "Enlighten me."

"Nothing beyond getting down there and seeing if I can help," she said, shouldering her pack.

"And what will that entail?"

"It depends on what they need. For the most part I imagine I'll be tending to any survivors and maybe helping them set up some wards to establish a perimeter. Why? Did you have something else in mind?"

Solas hesitated. _Tell her the truth,_ a voice inside him seemed to whisper. _She is wasting her time._ But how could he bring himself to admit that both she and the people she wanted so desperately to save were mere phantoms of a world that never should have been? He could not confess that to her, not when he himself had spent so long fleeing that terrible knowledge. All the same, none of those beings would ever know anything other than this false, flawed world. Their torment was real, even if they were not. It would be pointless and cruel to let it go on.

"Wanting to help the victims is admirable," he said at last. "I will assist you as much as I am able. But I also want to find out what could have caused a tear in the Veil of this magnitude, and whether its effects can be reversed."

"Makes sense. Let's go."

On their way out of the inn, Zula left the key to their room on the top of the bar amidst spilled drinks and half-eaten lunches. Overlook was eerily silent as they departed, its snowdrifts and its whitewashed buildings painted a sickly green by the pulsating light from the rift. Was it Solas's imagination, or had the hole gotten bigger in the short amount of time it had taken them to retrieve their belongings? He had wanted the Veil to come down, it was true, but not like this. He had felt the rift's mindless hunger when he had touched it with his magic, a void that would devour the whole of reality without being satisfied. He had to find a way to stop it. Otherwise there would be no world left for his People to reclaim.

At the outskirts of the village, Solas spotted a path that led toward the temple, a faint dirt track begun by animals and gradually worn down by the feet of pilgrims. He and Zula moved along the steep, treacherous trail as quickly as was safe, drawing ever closer to the hole in the sky. Spirits continued to pour out of it. With each streak of light that plummeted to earth, his horror grew. The loss of life at the Conclave was staggering. Many powerful and influential humans must have died in the explosion, and many more would die at the hands of demons before this day was done. Southern Thedas would feel the repercussions of this tragedy for decades to come - _if Thedas still exists then,_ he thought mournfully. Yet those mortals would have died all the same when he took apart the Veil. It was the spirits who had suffered most needlessly, who would now die in agony and terror because he had failed.

Zula could not tear her attention from the rift either. "Ever and Davhalla must be well on their way to Rivain by now," she said quietly. Her meaning was clear: _At least they were nowhere near the temple when it exploded._

"Yes," Solas said, but he was thinking, _It won't matter. If that breach isn't sealed, no matter how far they run, they will only outlive the rest of us by a few months at best._

As they descended, he continued to stare at the rift. He remained baffled as to how it had formed. As far as he knew, Corypheus had only intended to make an opening in the Veil large enough for himself to enter the Fade. How had his spell gone so badly out of control? There had to have been some sort of outside interference in play. Corypheus was a reasonably skilled magician by modern standards, and even in his destructive madness he would have known better than to deflect the backlash of a massive working gone wrong into the Veil itself. No, somebody else must have interrupted the spell, some unexpected interloper who had not understood what their intervention would do. It was unfortunate that whoever had gotten in the way had likely perished in the blast. He would have liked to ask them what they had known and why they had chosen to get involved.

Corypheus himself had never been expected to survive the orb's unlocking. His absence from the scene was far from troubling. The absence of the orb, however, was profoundly disturbing. In Elvhenan, Solas had crafted it to withstand almost any force, and he knew it could not have been destroyed by the same discharge of power it had caused. But if Corypheus was dead, where was the orb? Why hadn't Solas been able to detect it amidst the rubble? None of it made sense.

The difficulty of the trail saved him from having to share his thoughts with Zula. She was too focused on navigating their descent to converse. But in time they came to a wide flat ledge several hundred feet below Overlook. Beyond it was a sheer precipice impossible to traverse safely. "We'll have to find another way down," she said. Her eyes were sometimes on the mountain and sometimes on the rift, but her attention was on Solas. "You know more about this than you've told me, don't you?"

"What makes you say that?" he asked, hoping she could not hear the dread that he felt.

"You're acting the same way you did just before you took us to Fen'Harel's cache. Like you're keeping some dark secret that's the most important thing in the world to you, but you can't or won't share it with anyone."

"We've known each other for a month or two at best, Zula. By necessity, there are more things you don't know about me than things you do."

"That's not what I asked and you know it. Is there something I should know before we get any closer to the temple?"

"There is always new knowledge to be discovered."

"Now you're just being evasive. Cut it out." Zula stopped and faced him, passing her staff nervously from hand to hand. "I'm not sure if you think you're protecting me, or if you're just worried I can't handle any more shocks after everything I've already learned about how my people went wrong. Whatever it is, I need you to set it aside and tell me the truth again. We both know we're heading into grave danger. I want to trust you, Solas. I want to be your ally. I can't do that if you don't tell me what's going on."

Solas's breath caught in his lungs. She was right, but not for the reasons that she might have named. Because she had forced the issue like this, he needed to make certain of her commitment to him now. Better to part ways now before they ended up in the thick of things together than to bring her along on a precarious mission with goals she could not support. "Very well," he said, and cleared his throat. "I won't waste your time. I am very familiar with the magic that tore the Veil. I've seen it many times before, but never like this. Something is very wrong."

"That much is plain to anyone. What should I know about it?"

There was no turning back now. "It is based upon techniques of ancient elven origin-"

He would never know how much he might have ended up telling her, or how she would have reacted. His words were drowned out by a deep, booming sound like an enormous piece of cloth being torn to shreds. The broad ledge upon which they stood was suddenly bathed in intense green light. A new, smaller rift had opened directly above them. The twinkling forms of poor doomed spirits were tumbling out of it. _I should have seen this coming,_ he thought. _What Corypheus did weakened the Veil everywhere. Rifts like this one must be opening all across the continent._

He fumbled for his weapon, feeling as unprepared and as useless as ever as he cloaked himself in a magic barrier. Zula's reflexes were faster. She slammed the butt of her staff into the ground and launched energy up and out of its other end, pulling it down around them in a shape he vaguely recognized - a counterspell, intended here to prevent the spirits from materializing on this side of the Veil. He hadn't even known she could do that. Some of the points of light immediately dissipated in small puffs of smoke as her magic banished the spirits back into the Fade. _Good._ But three of them continued to manifest until they solidified in front of him with a loud pop, assuming aggressive postures that warned of an imminent attack.

Two of the spirits had taken the form of rage demons, their molten shapes swirling and bubbling as if their skin could not contain their fury. One of them had been caught by the edge of Zula's counterspell and stood dazed and unmoving beneath the rift. Zula had paused for only a moment after her first spell. Now she lifted her staff again and swung it in the demon's direction. A crackling ball of lightning bust from the tip of the staff and struck the defenseless demon at center mass, annihilating it completely. The other rage demon shied away, not wanting to meet the same fate as its companion.

The third demon was going to be a problem. It was hooded and dressed in black rags, with oversized grey hands that incessantly twitched in front of its wrinkled face as it darted rapidly around the ledge, never staying in one place for long. _A despair demon._ Zula was already turning toward it as the first rage demon disintegrated, hastily raising a barrier of her own. The despair demon just as quickly seared the shield away with an icy blast from its clawed fingers. The second rage demon was trying to flank her. Solas knew what he had to do.

He thrust his staff forward, focusing all of his will behind it and aiming his single reliable ice spell at the surviving rage demon. This time, the spell froze it solid on the first try. _My powers are returning. Good._ Before the demon could regain its freedom of movement, he and Zula launched attack after attack at it, staying out of reach of its fiery talons as they gradually wore down its defenses. It took longer than he would have liked to destroy it, but they finished the fight unharmed.

There was no time to celebrate their victory. An inhuman shriek split the air. Solas whirled around to see the despair demon advancing on him. Before he could ready his next spell, it tossed another vicious ice bolt at him. The magic struck him in the chest with enough force to knock him to the ground. Only his barrier had saved him, and now that, too, was gone. He tried to stand up, to lift his staff, but the unnatural cold had seeped into his limbs and made him clumsy and sluggish. The despair demon was gathering bright blue energy between its cupped hands. _This is how it ends_ , he thought distantly.

"Solas!" Zula's scream got the demon's attention as well as his. With a wordless cry she loosed a stream of orange fire from her staff. It connected viciously with the demon. The creature's wailing increased in volume and pitch. It wheeled toward her, wreathed in a nimbus of flame, its original target forgotten. There was nothing he could do to stop the attack, once meant for him, that the demon unleashed upon her.

The ray of ice took her in her left flank, just beneath her rib cage. It was not unlike the strike he had used to kill Isene. Zula's barrier was long gone. She was defenseless. The blow was forceful enough to drive her backwards into the side of the mountain. The flames around the despair demon still burned. It jerked erratically in the air, hissing, too distracted by the pain to cast another spell. He was on his feet again and he knew she had given him the only chance he would get to finish this fight. Yelling incoherently, he pelted the demon with spell after spell until nothing remained of it but a few motes of grey dust drifting upward toward the still-crackling rift.

He did not remember running to Zula's side, or how or when he realized to his horror that the despair demon's spell had not killed her outright. He only knew that one moment he was striking the fatal blow against the demon and the next he was kneeling next to her with her hand in both of his, repeating "no, no, no" in a voice that sounded too despondent to be his own. The blast had punched a fist-sized hole through her torso, shredding her internal organs and severing her spine. Even the healers of Arlathan would have struggled to cure such an injury. He tried not to look too closely. He did not want this broken physical form to be his last memory of her.

Zula's pain must have been excruciating, but it was not enough to keep her from recognizing him. Her glazed-over eyes focused on his for a moment and her eyebrows drew together. She opened her mouth as if to speak and bright red blood spilled out. Then her head fell to one side and her hand went limp in his. Her features slackened. Her last breath left her lungs with a long slow rattle. She was gone.

Behind him the rift let out a low rumble of warning. It was still open, still active. More spirits might emerge at any time. He was not strong enough to fight them alone. He had to retreat. He put a hand beneath her neck as if to lift her body, to take her with him, until an inner voice not unlike hers warned him, _If you don't leave right now you'll get us both killed for nothing. Save yourself. Run!_

He knew it was not really her. It was only his own overdeveloped sense of self-preservation ordering him to leave. He also knew he would not ignore it. This catastrophe had always been of his own making. He was the only one who could repair it now. He stood up and staggered away from Zula's body, still trying desperately to believe that there was some way to take back the past hundred heartbeats and do everything right this time. The rift sparked and snapped above him. Without another backward glance he clutched his staff and ran, fleeing down the mountainside like the coward he had always been.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas performs a funeral rite.

Solas did not know how long he ran before he realized no one was following him. He slowed down to take in his surroundings, although he still did not dare to stop. He was farther along the ledge now, hidden from the rift behind a cluster of jagged stones. The terrain afforded him concealment enough for the moment, but the ledge became narrower and more uneven as it continued on around the mountain. He would have to descend from it eventually.

The slope below flattened out into a long straight incline, mantled with scree, that gave way to a thickly forested valley. Before he could second-guess himself he was running downhill, choosing his footing carefully as the sharp rocks slipped and shifted beneath his stride. He risked no backward glance. He clutched his staff in front of him, his shoulders tense, waiting for the thunder of a newly opened rift or the shriek of a demon to herald his end. His death did not come. He reached the treeline and kept running, crashing through the underbrush with no thought but escape.

The dell through which he now stumbled was peppered with craggy rock formations and bare trees just beginning to bud. The dark narrow mouth of a cave made a thin black line beneath one of the outcroppings. He skidded to a halt in front of the crevice and wriggled in feet-first, pulling his staff and his pack in behind him. His back and legs scraped painfully against the rough ceiling until he had thoroughly wedged himself inside. The stink of mud and sweat and fear enveloped him. Gasping for air, he shoved handfuls of snow and dead leaves and downed branches in front of the opening to hide himself from his pursuers.

The cave was silent and lightless and confining, filled with nothing but his body and his memories, and he willingly entombed himself within it. Once his heart slowed down and he could convince himself no demons pursued him, he began uncontrollably to think back on what had happened. He examined his memories from every angle like the Fade-preserved dreams they would one day become, as if replaying the experience could undo it. If only he had been stronger, or faster, or in a different place at a different time. If only he had cast a new barrier on Zula and defended her instead of poking at the demons with his useless attacks. If only he had denied her request to stay with him after they had defeated Desiderata and escaped from the cache. If only he had not chosen to interfere with Clan Vunlanaris's ritual in the first place. If only he had stayed in _uthenera_ and never given himself occasion to care about any of this. If only, if only, if only.

He could not stop thinking about Zula's lifeless body, lying high above him on the bare mountainside. No one would give her the Dalish burial she would have wanted. No one would tuck an acorn between her stiff, clasped palms to allow new life to later spring forth from her death. No one would even burn her body as the humans did to guard against possession. Involuntarily, he shuddered. Would she suffer this final indignity because of his many failures, despite everything she had risked for the sake of freedom? In the bleak and hideous future that awaited him, would he one day lift his head in the middle of battle and face the demon that would wear her skin in death?

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling smothered and imprisoned on all sides by the walls of the cave. "It isn't real," he told himself through clenched teeth. "It didn't happen. None of this is real. It isn't real. It isn't real. It isn't real." He knew even as he spoke the words that they were a lie. No matter how hard he tried to think of the world he had made as a false memory, a fever dream, he knew the half-truths of the Fade would never affect him in this way. Millennia ago, he had unknowingly stripped Zula's birthright from her. And yet she stubbornly refused to be bound by his will, even in death. She had always been real in spite of everything he had done. And if she had been real all along, who else might be?

No. He would not follow that thought all the way to its conclusion. Not now, and perhaps not ever. _And that is why you are weak,_ some nagging voice inside him said. He pressed the side of his face harder into the thawing ground and hoped for a Fade rift or a demon or _anything_ to appear and rescue him from the torments of his own mind.

Eventually the light beyond the mouth of the cave changed. He must have fallen asleep - although, mercifully, he did not remember entering the Fade. Undoubtedly, the spirits here were even more troubled and confused than the humans on the other side of the Veil had been. He was in no way prepared to comfort them after everything he had just witnessed. He cleared away the fallen leaves and snow and dirt in front of him and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. The sky had gone the faint bluish-grey of pre-dawn, overlaid with the unnatural green of the rift. The night had passed him by unaware. Around him, the woods were utterly silent, and when he cast his senses outward he detected no spirits in the area. He had escaped, for whatever it would profit him.

His body was beginning to make numerous demands upon him, so he wriggled free of the cave. He crouched in the snow, then stood up slowly and unsteadily, pausing to massage life back into his cramped, numb legs with stiff fingers. The persistent chill he felt was partly due to his uncomfortable hiding place and partly due to the lingering effects of the despair demon's bolts of ice. Both problems would correct themselves in time. He stretched his sore muscles and relieved himself behind a bush, then walked farther into the valley. There he found a small stream swollen with early snowmelt and bent to drink deeply of its frigid waters. He was hungry, but there was no food in his pack. Zula had planned to purchase some, but she hadn't gotten around to it before leaving Overlook. _Now she never will,_ he thought bitterly.

The valley held nothing for him apart from temporary concealment. It was time to move on. He put his back to the mountain from which he had hastily descended and began his climb up the opposite slope, picking out a careful footing amidst the rocks and mud. The sun had risen by the time he reached the top. Its light was dimmed and diffused by a shroud of heavy clouds and the lingering haze left behind by the smoldering temple. A brisk, steady breeze blew, shrouding the hills in the stench of burning bodies. From here, above the treetops, the massive rift in the sky was in view again. It had definitely expanded since the last time he had seen it. He hadn't been imagining things after all.

He forced himself to look away, to take in the rest of his surroundings. His unthinking flight from the smaller rift on the mountain ledge had actually carried him around and past the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Its ruined towers and shattered domes now loomed above him amidst the cliffs. Beyond the valley, the mountain peaks leveled out into rolling foothills. Between those hills was a mid-sized settlement a few hours' hike away. Its gates were flung open but heavily guarded, and its exterior swarmed with people of all descriptions. It had to be Haven - the closest town to the rebuilt temple, according to what the moneychanger in Overlook had told him and Zula.

If Zula were here she would have already been on her way to Haven, ready to offer all of the help she had been so determined to give. But she wasn't here, and would never be again, and he did not know whether going there alone was wise. Most of the soldiers massing around the city gates were templars and other such warriors of the Andrastian Chantry. They might not take kindly to the assistance of an elven apostate. No matter how useful he made himself, they might still try to imprison him, subject him to the Rite of Tranquility, or commit any number of other atrocities upon him in the name of their short-sighted faith. And even if they did not, how was he to convince them of the usefulness of his knowledge without giving away his true identity?

Despite his misgivings, his feet were already carrying him down the hill and toward Haven. It was what Zula would have wanted him to do, but was it really the best course of action? The Chantry was ignorant, its perspective on the world limited in ways it did not realize and in ways it had deliberately chosen. He could not afford to pick the wrong ally again, even if that meant leaving the humans to their fate. Yet surely it couldn't hurt to get closer, to try to learn more about what they were planning and how it might affect him. He kept walking. Undoubtedly, the way forward would present itself in time.

So when he came upon the carving in the rock face just minutes later, he shook his head and laughed softly. The ground was flattening out, but it remained dotted with large stones like the one that had sheltered his cave. On the rough, uneven surface of one massive boulder, some long-ago anonymous elf had etched crude, simplistic images of the so-called elven gods. Their features were worn by long exposure to the elements and partially obscured by dirt and dried-out moss. He turned his back to the Evanuris, took a few steps away from their icons, and knelt down in the damp valley floor. He knew what he would find even before he unearthed the small, weathered figurine of the Dread Wolf buried beneath the snow-dusted leaves. Long ago, this must have been somebody's private shrine. It had stood abandoned and forgotten until he happened across it at this exact moment while in search of a sign. _This is incontrovertible proof that the gods of the Dalish are not real,_ he thought. _None of the Evanuris ever had a sense of humor._

Idly, he cleaned the grime and dead vegetation from the statue and the relief carvings. He did not really know why. Perhaps he wanted to keep his hands busy while he came to terms with having made up his mind about what to do as soon as he had emerged from the cave. Perhaps he had known his true path ever since he had first awakened from _uthenera_. Everything before now had been a long slow process of accepting that he could not do this alone. He had tried, and he had failed. And as much as he had told himself that only he knew how to restore the People and to set the world right, ever since he had first awakened he had sought out others for help - Mythal, and Felassan, and his spirit friends in the Fade, and Isene and Clan Sou'adahlen, and the survivors of the massacre at Clan Vunlanaris, and even Corypheus in a way.

To go to the humans would be much like what he had already done, yes - but it would also be something new. He would have to be even more careful with his secrets and his knowledge. He would study, and follow, and learn everything he could about the rift in the sky until the perfect moment came to act. If he could not find a way to stop its expansion, and ultimately to close it again, the world would be destroyed and the People would have no future regardless of what he did. The Veil had to be made whole before he could move forward. To mend it, he would have to confront the current problem at its source, with the help of those who had been closest to whatever tragedy had occurred at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

He shook his head in disbelief. The fate of all things now depended upon the actions of beings who were not even real. _Start believing it,_ he told himself firmly. If he could not at least pretend their lives mattered to him, his strategy would be doomed from the start.

The shrine to the false gods was clean now. He looked down at the filthy hands of the body he had stolen, and thought, _This is my grandfather's axe._ He could not go on being the thing he had once been. He could not permit himself to make those same mistakes. So now, despite the danger, he would have to throw his lot in with the only allies who might be able to help him save the world he still intended to unmake. Zula had shown him there was strength and wisdom among them. Perhaps he would find more of it again in Haven.

Reality had changed. He needed to change himself along with it. The time of the lone Wolf was at an end.

He moved back to the statue of Fen'Harel and took off his pack to dig out the remaining memory charms he had taken from the cache. The statue sat on top of a broad flat stone, and he dropped the clay tokens onto the slab and crushed them beneath his heel. Regret washed over him as he felt the enchantment leaving them. He hated to sacrifice such a useful tool, but their existence would lead inevitably to suspicion and unwanted questioning if they were discovered. All the same, he had felt his power gradually returning to him with each day he stayed awake, and in time he would again be able to cast the spell they had contained.

Feeling vaguely ridiculous, he sat down in front of the statue and laid Keeper Tarasha's staff across his lap. Quickly, systematically, he stripped off the adornments that marked it as a tool of Dalish make. He left a small hoard of beads and feathers and bones and crystals on top of the fragmented memory charms. Now only his words, and not his tools, would tell the story of where he had been - and he knew perfectly well how to guard what his mouth might reveal. He stared down at the items on the makeshift altar and could not help thinking of Zula burning incense for Athras as her tears followed the _vallaslin_ down her cheeks. Broken spell-tokens and discarded baubles were far from a proper death offering, but they were the only one she would ever receive. He surprised himself when he spoke aloud, his hoarse voice stumbling through a half-remembered prayer to gods he would never believe in:

"Falon'Din, _lethanavir_ , watch over my kinswoman, Zula Vunlanaris, on her journey to the Beyond. Guide her feet, calm her soul, lead her to her rest. Elgar'nan, All-Father, be the light on her path. Mythal, All-Mother, protect her and mother her in the realms where mortals cannot tread. Sylaise Hearthkeeper, tend the fires for her until she arrives in the place where all wounds will be healed. Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla, grant her bright stars to steer by and a shining road to follow. Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, see that her loyalty is rewarded. June, Master of Crafts, let her spirit work its will and find its purpose. Andruil, Sister of the Moon, let her steps be swift and tireless in the great hunt that is still to come. Zula Vunlanaris, my kinswoman, my friend, may the Dread Wolf never hear your steps until the day I come to join you."

Solas stood up, shouldered his pack, and gave a final backward glance to the tiny shrine and everything he had left there. He could not banish Zula's face from his mind, nor her lessons from his memory. _"Sul'amelan,"_ he said to the wind. Then he gripped his staff in both hands, as if his magic alone were enough to defeat what he faced, and started off down the hill, toward Haven and whatever awaited him within its walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):
> 
> sul'amelan = teacher


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas surrenders.

Steadily, tirelessly, Solas walked. He trudged through endless hills and valleys blanketed in hip-deep snow, skirted a frozen lake, and by mid-afternoon crossed the recently rebuilt bridge to the town of Haven. He was not surprised to see only two humans assigned to guard the settlement's western gate. The expanding rift was undoubtedly of much greater concern than anyone who might show up on the road.

The guards were clearly not expecting visitors. One of them was so startled by his arrival that she nearly dropped her pike. "Who goes there?" she demanded, fumbling with her weapon.

"I mean you no harm," he said. Moving slowly so as not to startle the other guard, who had a crossbow in her hands and an uncomprehending look on her face, he bent over and laid his staff on the ground. "I surrender."

Both of the soldiers stared at him blankly. "I said, who goes there?" the one with the pike repeated.

"He's an apostate," said the one with the crossbow. "And an elf."

"Very observant," said Solas.

The crossbow-wielding guard, who seemed marginally quicker-witted than her companion, brought the tip of her arrow to bear on Solas. "Drop your weapon. Hands where I can see them."

"I have already done so."

"What is your business here?"

It took all of his willpower to speak calmly and mildly. _Am I really going to throw in my lot with these imbeciles?_ "I am here to help. I know the Chantry does not take kindly to apostates, but I have important information about the hole in the sky. Whoever is in charge here will want to hear what I know. Are you going to take me to your superiors or not?"

His firm, weary tone finally spurred the soldiers to action. The one with the crossbow kept her weapon trained on him, while the one with the pike hurried through the gates and soon returned with the guard captain. The captain ordered the soldiers to take Solas's pack and his staff, roughly patted him down in search of nonexistent weapons, and restrained his hands with a set of manacles. Then she marched him through the gates without another word, trailed by a few other soldiers who may have been there as backup or may have simply wanted to gawk.

The captain led Solas toward Haven's chantry with her quarterstaff pressed firmly into the small of his back. Wooden fortifications and unpretentious whitewashed buildings flanked the muddy path. Religious sisters and soldiers in Chantry heraldry rushed about the village, struggling to forge order out of chaos. The humans were gathering and enumerating weapons and supplies, studying maps, and leading groups of frightened villagers through sword and polearm drills meant to mold them into a useful militia. Their hard work was commendable, albeit futile if a way to close the rift were not found.

Imposing stone stairs snaked up the side of the hill to the chantry's massive double doors, but the captain did not use them. Instead she ushered him through a disused side entrance that opened into a cavernous subterranean level of the building. At the end of a long shadowy hall was a small, windowless room containing nothing but a rough-hewn table and chair. "Sit," she said, and he complied. She produced a length of rope, tied him to the chair, and left without another word. The door closed behind her, plunging the room into total darkness, and he heard a heavy thump as she barred it from the outside. Sick dread coiled in his belly. It was too late to turn back now.

Solas did not know how long he waited in the silent blackness, alone with his fears and his jumbled thoughts. His mind raced through vague, half-formed possibilities, unable to shepherd any of them from doubt into certainty. Many high-ranking Chantry leaders would have died in the explosion at the Conclave. Whoever was in charge here now was likely inexperienced and unprepared. Their reactions would be difficult to predict. Would they quickly accept his offer of help, or would it take substantial effort to convince them? Would they simply dismiss him without a second thought, like the Dalish had done? Or had they already decided to let him waste away and perish in this cell?

His fear of abandonment, at least, proved unfounded. Eventually, the door creaked open and a single hooded figure entered with a lantern. After his long wait in the dark, even that soft golden light was painful and blinding. He shied away and shielded his eyes as she set the lamp on the table. "My apologies," the figure said in a feminine, Orlesian-accented voice. "We have kept you waiting for longer than I wished."

"It couldn't be helped," Solas said weakly. He blinked slowly until his vision cleared. The woman who had entered was human, of middle years, with smooth white skin and wispy strands of red hair peeking out from beneath her hood. "Are you the commander of these forces?"

"We're here to talk about you," she replied with the smooth calm of an experienced interrogator. "Have you need of anything before we begin? The guards said you looked exhausted."

"It's been some time since I ate," he admitted. The woman stepped out into the hall and had a brief, hushed conversation with someone on the other side of the door. Shortly thereafter she returned with a mug of ice-cold water and a wooden bowl of unidentifiable brown meaty slop with a torn chunk of bread balanced on the rim. She set the food and drink down in front of him and loosened the ropes binding him to the chair. The manacles on his wrists clanked and clattered as he picked up his spoon. He was starving, but he forced himself to consume the meal slowly. It would make a poor first impression to get sick in front of her.

As he ate, she asked questions. They were meant to sound light and casual, like friendly dinner conversation, but he knew they were anything but. He himself had used a similar tactic long ago on captured allies of the Evanuris: meet their physical needs, show them kindness, speak politely, and wait for them to let their guard down and give away their secrets. He would not fall into her trap. So he told straightforward, uncomplicated lies, offering enough detail to make them believable but not so much as to risk contradicting himself later. Yes, I am an apostate. No, I am not Dalish. I have never been part of the Circle. I studied magic peacefully on my own, specializing in the magic of the Fade. I was in Overlook when the hole in the sky opened. I came here to offer you my aid. I grew up in the village of Skysedge. My name is Solas.

When the food was gone, she asked him the same questions over again, reworded more pointedly in a clear attempt to catch him in a telling inconsistency. He did not change his story. Yet he could tell that trust did not come easily to her, and that she was preparing for yet another round of inquiries. She did not know she could not break him, no matter how hard she tried. Impulsively, he decided to put an end to it. "I tire of this."

The interrogator's face was an expressionless mask. "You surrendered to us, Solas. I'm not sure your feelings matter."

"My impatience has nothing to do with my feelings and everything to do with the rift. Even as you question me, it continues to grow. It will destroy the world if it is not stopped."

That got her attention. "How did you know the Breach is expanding?"

 _The Breach - so that's what they call it._ "As I said, I have spent my life studying the Fade. I have seen tears in the Veil before, but never one so large as this. Like any other Fade rift, the Breach must be closed as promptly as possible. As long as it remains open, passing spirits will continue to be corrupted into demons, and smaller tears will continue to appear all across Ferelden and Orlais due to the Breach's destabilizing influence on the entire Veil. The consequences of inaction would be devastating."

"Do you know how to close it?"

"Methods exist for closing smaller Fade rifts. Theoretically, those techniques could be generalized to apply to the Breach, if there were enough power behind them." Solas himself did not currently possess such magical strength, of course, but the Orlesian woman didn't need to know that. "I would need to approach one of the smaller rifts and study it in much greater detail before I could develop a strategy."

"Would it help to make observations of someone who was close to the Breach when it opened?"

"Most likely, yes. A pity there do not seem to have been any survivors of the blast."

"What if there were?"

The back of his neck prickled. _If she is implying what I think she is implying, and there was actually a survivor...who knows what they saw, or what they might have been exposed to. I must find a way to meet that person._ "I would very much want to study them, too," he said, trying to sound interested but not aggressively so.

The Orlesian woman studied him silently for long moments, her blue eyes narrowing in thought. She was weighing her options, comparing the benefits of his offer to the risks of everything he might be concealing. "The decision is not mine alone," she said at last. "But I will present your proposal to our leaders."

He nodded. "I appreciate your consideration. Thank you."

"Don't be so swift with your gratitude, Solas. I'm keeping you confined until further notice."

"If you must." It was pointless to object. Nor did he resist when she called for the soldiers and had them escort him down dim corridors and through a heavy, iron-banded door. Behind it was a long, narrow room lined with small alcoves repurposed into cells. The cramped niches held nothing but a pile of musty straw covered with stinking woolen blankets and a filthy chamber pot in one corner. A soldier half-shoved him into one of the cells and drew iron bars shut across its entrance. They released him from the manacles, locked the door, and departed without a word.

An unfamiliar voice drifted out from one of the other alcoves. "You ever stop and ask yourself what a chantry needs with so many prison cells anyway? I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I've gotta say, every possibility I come up with is more disturbing than the one before."

"I can't say I've given it much consideration," said Solas. He pressed his face between the bars to get a closer look at his fellow prisoner. The man who had spoken was a dwarf. His coarse blond hair was tied back from his rugged, stubbly face. The silver rings in his ears and the fine embroidery on his red velvet tunic suggested a prosperous background. _What in the world is he doing here?_ "But now that you've pointed it out, I will be unable to forget it."

"That's one of my specialties," the dwarf said with a lopsided grin. "Varric Tethras, at your service." The dramatic tone of his introduction suggested he was accustomed to being recognized. Solas, however, had never heard of him.

"A pleasure. I am Solas."

"Ah. A one-name wonder. I like it. Short, sweet, and memorable, but just mysterious enough to keep everyone guessing."

"If you say so," said Solas, knowing he sounded as flustered as he felt. How could anyone speak so flippantly in the face of imprisonment, knowing that just outside the chantry's walls was a Fade rift large enough to threaten the entire world? "It's only my name. I intend nothing by it."

"Easy there, friend," said Varric. "It was a joke."

"My apologies, Varric. I'm not really in a joking mood."

"Makes sense, what with all the demons falling out of a big-ass hole in the sky. That'll mess with anyone's sense of humor - except mine, apparently. So what'd they stick you in here for?"

"I am not entirely sure. Mostly I think it's because the Chantry does not trust mages like me."

"Huh. You're an apostate, then?"

"If you must put it in those terms, yes. I belong to no Circle, but I have studied the Fade extensively. When the Breach opened, I came to Haven to offer aid. But the woman who questioned me when I arrived seems quite suspicious of my motives."

"You're a brave man," said Varric, and this time he sounded completely genuine. His eyes lit up with curiosity. "The woman who questioned you - let me guess. Tall, dark hair, scar on the face, Nevarran accent?"

"No. Red hair, and Orlesian."

"You got Lady Nightingale, then, not Seeker Pentaghast. I'm not sure if that's better or worse."

"You know these people?"

"Better than I'd like. The Seeker brought me here to tell my story to the Conclave. Lucky for us both, they didn't get to us on the agenda before everything exploded. If the Conclave had done its business a little faster, we'd both have been in the temple when it blew." Varric shuddered.

"What do you mean, to tell your story?"

"Wait, you don't know? The Divine called the Conclave to broker a peace between the mages and the templars. And me and the Champion of Kirkwall, we were like _this_." He crossed two stubby fingers.

"Who?"

"Now you're having me on. Either that, or you've been living in the Deep Roads for the past decade. You mean you've never heard of Marian Hawke?"

"I come from a small village in the Frostback Mountains. I spend most of my time in the Fade. Current events often elude me. I assume this person must have something to do with the mage rebellion in Kirkwall, but I am unaware of the details. Please, enlighten me."

"I'd love to." Varric began to tell a story, embellished and well-rehearsed, about Hawke's rise from lowly Fereldan refugee mage to Champion of Kirkwall, how she had lost her entire family and been betrayed by her apostate lover, how her name had ultimately become a rallying cry for mages everywhere. He clearly held her in high regard. Solas found himself intrigued by Hawke's early encounter with a woman named Flemeth, who sounded much like Mythal as he had seen her in this realm - but Varric readily admitted he had not been present for that portion of her journey, so there was little point in asking him to elaborate. Solas disregarded most of the story's other details. After all, the real purpose of getting Varric talking about Hawke and himself had been to keep him from asking too many questions about Solas.

When Varric's story finally came to its highly improbable conclusion, and when Solas had responded with the appropriate noises of interest and sympathy, the dwarf stifled a yawn. "Damn. It's been a while since I had anyone to talk to. I guess it took a lot out of me. I think I'll try to get some shut-eye, if it's all the same to you."

"I will do the same." This was the moment Solas had truly been anticipating, or perhaps dreading. He needed to return to the Fade and see what shape it was in. He made himself comfortable as best he could on the damp straw, wrapped himself in the reeking blanket, and let his soul-deep weariness carry him into sleep.

The state of the Fade was even worse than he had feared. The Breach was plainly evident everywhere he looked, spewing a constant torrent of fear and anger and pain into its surroundings. Few spirits remained in the area; most had been wise enough to flee before they could be corrupted. But one familiar entity brushed against his consciousness almost immediately. Its presence brought him both joy and concern, and he smiled wistfully as he turned his full attention toward it. He addressed it in his native tongue, and the relief of speaking Elvhen to someone felt every bit as comforting and refreshing as slipping into Overlook's warm baths. "You should not be here, friend _._ It isn't safe."

"I won't stay long. I had to know you were alive." Wisdom's voice was soft and worried, its form hazy and dim. "Where is Zula?"

"She's dead," said Solas. He could not bear to explain what had happened, not with his grief so fresh. Instead, he opened his thoughts to Wisdom and let it take the memories directly from his mind. He held nothing back from it, not even his true identity or the role he had played in the Breach's creation. Trusting Wisdom so fully was a risk he was willing to taking. After all, in the unlikely event that a spirit attempted to betray his secrets, humans and their allies were often disinclined to believe anything they learned from the Fade.

Wisdom withdrew from his consciousness, her face a mirror of the sadness on his own. "I am so sorry."

"So am I. What happened to her was my fault."

"Perhaps. Even so, she is not lost to you."

Solas laughed, a broken, bitter sound. "Because she will live on in my memories? Or are you thinking of some other inane platitude?"

"No. Nothing so trite. She will survive because the things she said and did made me what I am. Her words, her beliefs - they brought me back to myself. If you had never known her, if you had not saved her from Clan Vunlanaris, I would still be Desiderata. Because she lived, so can I. Her legacy lives on through me."

He was silent for a long time. "I apologize," he finally said. "I should not have said that. You shame me with your insight, and deservedly so."

"I accept your apology. These times are a trial for everyone. Remember, you will not be the only one who may say things he does not truly mean."

"I shall bear it in mind." In the distance, the Breach seemed to rumble. A wave of sick wrongness rushed out and bathed both of them. "This place isn't safe. You really should go _._ "

"As should you. But remember this as well: Anyone can be transformed. Even me. Even you. When the time comes, if you cannot avoid it, perhaps you should embrace it."

He nodded. "We will speak again soon."

"Yes. Until then, be well, my friend."

"I will try." Solas felt Wisdom pulling away from him, retreating into a corner of the Fade as yet untouched by the Breach and its corruption. He, too, allowed himself to sink into a deep, restorative sleep. He did not know when he would have the chance again. His last clear thought before unconsciousness took him was that Wisdom was more of an optimist than he could ever be. Not every transformation was for the better. He feared he would suffer many more before his task was complete.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas meets the Herald of Andraste.

Solas woke some time later from a fragmented dream of Zula to a piercing sliver of white light muscling its way beneath his eyelids. He sat up, squinting, as a tall armored figure approached the door to his cell. "Get up, Solas," said a woman's flat, Nevarran-accented voice.

"'morning, Seeker," Varric mumbled sleepily.

"My name is Cassandra Pentaghast," the armored woman said, ignoring Varric's greeting entirely. She had an Andrastian insignia on her breastplate and deep dark circles under her eyes. "My associate Leliana told me you have knowledge of the rifts and of the magic causing them. Is this true?"

"Yes," said Solas, "and I still wish to share what I know."

"Then you are coming with me." Cassandra nodded at a soldier who had followed her into the jail. He produced a heavy ring of keys and unlocked Solas's cell. "There is a situation that may benefit from your expertise."

"Good luck," Varric called out as Cassandra and the soldier escorted Solas up the stairs.

"To you as well," Solas replied.

Hastily they brought him outside, into the bright, cold sun of late morning. A trampled-down path led to a small collection of wooden huts clustered in the shadow of the chantry. Two soldiers stood guard, wary and tense, at the front door of one of the shacks. The familiar bundle of his once-confiscated belongings lay at their feet. "Take your supplies," said Cassandra. "You'll need them."

Gratefully and without hesitation, he picked up his gear, appreciating the heft of the staff in his hands. "What is this about?"

Cassandra looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "What I am about to tell you must remain between us. There was one survivor of the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

"Leliana implied as much when she interrogated me."

"Yes. The survivor has been...marked, somehow, by the same magic that opened the Breach. Our Circle mages have never seen anything like it. We cannot explain what has happened to her. Nor do we know why she was present at the Conclave, or whether she caused the explosion." 

"Or whether she might have the power to close the rift." Throughout the conversation, a knot of sick dread had been tightening in his stomach. He knew exactly what magic had caused the Breach - and, by extension, what magic must have marked the hapless survivor. Was she a pawn of Corypheus, or simply yet another innocent person caught up the crossfire? He was not sure which possibility would be worse.

Cassandra nodded. "No matter her involvement, she must survive, and we must question her. Whenever the Breach expands, so does the mark on her hand. The healers have done everything they can. I don't expect anyone could entirely reverse what has happened to her, but you must stabilize her, if you can."

"I will do my best," he said, and started toward the hut.

"Solas," she called after him. Her tired face was full of suspicion and distrust. "You must know I have no patience for tricks or games. Not now, when so much is at stake."

"Nor do I," he said slowly. He wondered whether Cassandra's misgivings stemmed from the Chantry's usual skepticism about magic practiced outside the circles, or whether this was Leliana's doing. _Have they all made up their minds about me so quickly?_

"You are here because you might yet be useful, not because I have accepted you as an ally. The benefit of the doubt is a luxury we can ill afford. If you do not give me the answers I want, I will have you executed as an apostate."

"Then let us both hope there are answers to be found." He turned and walked through the door, trying to put her threat out of his mind.

The interior of the shack was dark and sweltering. The shutters were tightly closed, and the air was thick with the odor of sickness. A Chantry healer knelt beside the single narrow bed upon which someone was lying, supine and motionless. _The survivor._ Strangely, the brightest light in the hovel came not from the low fire in the hearth, but from a faint green glow emitting from the survivor's motionless form. Its steady flickering cast unearthly shadows around the room and revealed pointed ears poking out from beneath her short, sweat-soaked auburn hair. At first, Solas saw no tattoos on her ashen skin, and a spark of cautious optimism kindled within him. Could this elf be one of Felassan's kinsfolk, or another ally he had never dared to dream of? But as he drew closer to the foot of the bed, he realized that only one side of her face was bare. _Dalish after all_ , he thought. He did not know why he had expected anything different. Sylaise's _vallaslin_ encircled her left eye and spiraled along her cheek and brow like an entangling vine. This design was relatively small, but its ink was a darker black than any other he had seen - as if to tell the Evanuris, _this much of me shall you possess and no more_.

But the woman's _vallaslin_ were far from the most noteworthy thing on the left side of her body. The Breach's green energy spat and crackled in the palm of her left hand, a Fade rift anchored in her very bones. Solas stretched out his arcane focus toward the mark, but even before his magic touched her he knew exactly what it was. It was his own power, of course, birthed from the depths of the orb, a fragment of Corypheus's spell. It had been meant to give Corypheus control over the Veil, to allow him to manipulate it as he saw fit until he could step into the Fade at will and claim the empty throne he thought was his. Without the power of the missing orb behind it, it was useless now.

Or was it?

With his mind working furiously, Solas opened his senses more fully to the mark as he motioned for the healer to step aside. The effect of the blast, he knew, was permanent. The botched spell had firmly rooted itself in this woman's body and soul. Trying to remove it would more than likely kill her. But if its intended use had been to open rifts, could it not also be repurposed to close them? The theory was sound, but in practice, success was far from assured. Even if he could stabilize the mark and reconfigure its energy in the desired fashion, its presence might yet prove fatal to her. Her fragile elven body had never been meant to bear this kind of strain, and his powers were not what they once had been, even when working with his own familiar essence. It was a terrible burden to entrust to one unsuspecting Dalish woman, but he had no other option. When weighed against the destruction of all of reality, any mortal's life seemed unimportant by comparison.

So he set aside his doubts and began to work - first scanning the mark from every angle until its image was perfectly fixed in his memory, then reshaping it bit by bit into something he could use without it killing its bearer in the process. Day became night and then day again. The soldiers brought him food and water, which he consumed without tasting. Sometimes the unconscious survivor thrashed and moaned beneath his hands, her pulse fluttering rapidly in her neck and her eyes rolling wildly beneath closed lids, and the healer dripped a tincture of elfroot and embrium between her lips until she stilled again. He regretted her discomfort, but there was nothing he could do to ease it. He knew so little about any of this, for all that his own magic had caused it. There was no map for the spell he was undertaking, and he could only hope his knowledge and skill would be enough to see it through to the end.

As he picked apart and rewove the mark's complex web of enchantments, he contemplated the woman whose left hand now bore his magic. Seen from up close, her compact body was solid and muscular, not nearly so frail as he had first feared. The healer had stripped away her badly damaged armor, and it lay next to the bed in a heavy pile of halla leather and ironbark. Her torso was covered in a fine tracing of scars, and her palms had a swordfighter's calluses. A warrior, then. Why was she here? He remembered what Zula had said about the Dalish sending spies to important gatherings. It seemed as likely an explanation as any other. Perhaps when she regained consciousness - _if_ she regained consciousness - he would get the chance to ask her.

At last, Solas rose stiffly from the side of the bed. "I have done all I can," he said to the healer. "Tell Seeker Pentaghast your patient will wake soon, if she is to wake at all."

A soldier came in to meet him. Much to his surprise, she did not lead him back to his prison cell, but rather several paces away to one of the other, vacant shacks. Apparently, Cassandra had decided to trust him for the moment, despite her earlier threats. He fell immediately into the bed and let exhaustion claim him, but his still-racing thoughts would not permit him to sleep for long. When he woke there was a jug of water and a simple meal waiting for him on the rustic wooden table. He did not know if the future would bring him such comforts again, so he ate, and drank, and washed, and used the chamber pot, and waited to see what would happen next.

Without his spellwork to distract him, worry overwhelmed him. He sat on the edge of the bed, frightened and frustrated. Normally, at a time like this he would ask his spirit friends for advice, but even if they had not fled he would not want to risk exposing them to the corruption of the Breach. He would have to decide on his next course of action without their help.

His earlier efforts had bought him some time, but there was still so much that might go wrong. What if the Dalish woman lacked the will to stand up to the rigors of his magic? What if his theory was flawed, and the mark turned out to be useless at closing the rifts? Even if his plan worked, did he really want to place himself under Cassandra's command when she had been so quick to threaten his life? So much depended upon matters entirely outside of his control. Perhaps this entire idea had been a fool's errand from the start, and he should run while no one was watching over him. He might not get another chance. He could find a place far from the Breach, seclude himself, research until he found a more certain way of reversing its effects. It would be a safer solution - safer for him, at least.

And yet Solas could not reconcile his desire to escape and to never look back with the knowledge of what he had done to the Dalish woman. He was the only person alive who fully understood the mark and its capabilities. It seemed cruel and capricious to grant her such power and then flee. Surely he owed it to her to stay long enough to at least be present for her first attempt at sealing a rift. But more than that, he was curious about her. Had she really been a spy at the Conclave, or had she come there for some other purpose? If the mark really worked the way he wanted it to, how would she use her newfound abilities? Would its existence entrench her more deeply in whatever worldview she already held? In the end, would she prove as small-minded and as hidebound as Isene and Clan Sou'adahlen and Clan Vunlanaris? Or would the discovery of things she had never dreamed possible impel her forward, beyond a mortal's limited viewpoint, as Felassan and Zula had wanted to do?

 _Zula._ Her memory brought a sharp, unexpected pang of unhealed grief. Solas was troubled by how easily she still came to his mind. Perhaps there was some part of him who saw this Dalish warrior as a replacement for his dead friend, someone he might shape into the ally Zula had never had the chance to become. It was ugly and shameful, but it was true. Or was his interest truly held only by this strange new manifestation of his own magic in the world, rather than by the mortal who unwittingly carried it?

Whatever it was that drew him to the woman who bore his mark, he could not escape it. By choosing to save her, by trying to make it into something she - and he - could use, he had bound himself irrevocably to her for as long as she could withstand his power. Later, when he found his orb, he would also need the mark she possessed. That meant remaining by her side regardless of what happened or of what she chose to do. When the time was right he would use what he had given her to do what he must. Until then, though, he would follow her, as he had learned to do from Zula. He would have given almost anything for a glimpse at the branches of Mythal's tree, for some hint at what the uncertain future might hold for him. Perhaps Mythal had known all along that it would come to this. Perhaps she was even now laughing from the other side of the Veil at the irony of how one of the very same Dalish elves whose ways Solas had so long disdained now held his fate in her spell-scarred hands.

Eventually, the door creaked open and Cassandra stepped into the shack, fully armed and armored. She held a small parcel under one arm. "Leliana told me you wanted to study one of the smaller rifts up close. Do you still wish to?"

Solas's mouth had gone dry. "Yes. Very much."

She tossed him the package. It contained a simple, heavy coat of cloth and leather that would afford him some minor protection from enemy attacks. "Then this is your opportunity. A new rift has just opened not far from here. Get ready. The others are waiting to accompany you."

He emerged shortly after Cassandra had departed, wearing his new armor, carrying his staff, and fiddling nervously with the wolf jawbone around his neck. Two soldiers and Varric stood outside. The dwarf was holding a large, complicated, imposing crossbow crafted in wood and brass. "I see Cassandra decided to let you out after all," Solas said.

"That's how I know things with the Breach are really dire," said Varric. "Or maybe she didn't feel like keeping an eye on you and gave me the job instead. Come on, Chuckles. Time's wasting."

 _Chuckles?!_ Solas thought, but he said nothing and fell in line behind the soldiers. As they passed the hut where the Dalish woman had been, he noticed its door was no longer guarded. Was she awake? Had she survived? He pushed those questions out of his mind and followed.

Their small, motley party jogged briskly up the winding trail, toward the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Breach above it. Dead and wounded soldiers and civilians alike lay on either side of the path. Rubble and smoldering ashes covered the landscape. When they rounded a switchback and started up a flight of steep stairs carved into the mountainside, he saw the rift Cassandra had mentioned, a bright green gash hanging in the smoky air. A few amorphous blue spirits, so new to this side of the Veil that their forms had not yet settled, milled around beneath it. One spirit spied the axe-wielding soldier in the lead and lobbed a bolt of magic in his direction. Solas sighed. There was no choice but to fight, then.

Solas, Varric, and the soldiers made quick work of the spirits at the top of the path. The poor creatures were still too dazed to put up much of a fight. Solas stood below the rift and stared up into it, extending his senses as far into it as he dared. He could easily discern the shape of the tear, could tell exactly what needed to happen to the Veil in order to knit it back together, but he was not certain he could call on the raw power needed to do it. He cast his spell anyway. A weak trickle of energy flowed out of the tip of his staff and up into the Fade. Nothing happened.

Above them, the rift crackled ominously. New tendrils of green light spiraled downward. "I think you pissed it off, Chuckles," said Varric, reloading his crossbow.

"It was angry to begin with," said Solas as he cast a barrier on himself and the others. After what had happened to Zula, he would never neglect that task again. "Get ready for more."

And so it went, over and over, more times than he cared to count. Demons emerged from the rift, and were destroyed. He tried again to knit its fraying edges back together, and failed. He attempted every spell he count think of, and a few that he knew perfectly well were beyond his capabilities. Nothing worked. Both of the soldiers were now bleeding from an assortment of wounds. Even Varric, for all his good cheer, was clearly beginning to tire. Another wave of enemies burst through the tattered Veil, and Solas began to wonder whether it was too late to flee.

Until someone beside him lashed out with a rapid, powerful sword strike and cleaved the demon attacking him in half.

He knew even before he turned to look that the Dalish warrior from Haven had saved him. Cassandra was just behind her, helping Varric to finish off the last of the demons. The elven fighter wore ill-fitting borrowed armor and carried a too-large sword proportioned for humans. Her tattooed face was full of barely suppressed terror. The mark on her hand glowed green and insistent behind her wooden shield. This was his chance. "Quickly!" he shouted. "Before more come through!"

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed the Dalish woman by the wrist and lifted her hand up to the rift. He gave the mark the slightest nudge with his magic and felt his own power pouring out of her palm and into the Veil, repairing the tear, doing what he could not. Her skin was very warm beneath his fingertips.

The rift sealed shut with an audible snap. The warrior broke free of his grip and took a few staggering steps backwards, clutching her arm where he had touched her. "What did you do?" she asked.

Solas could hardly believe the mark had worked. He wanted to shout for joy, to wrap this stranger up in a triumphant embrace. Instead he gave her a slight smile. He had to remain calm, to choose his words carefully lest he reveal too much. "I did nothing. The credit is yours."

The woman looked down at her hand. "At least this is good for something."

"Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand," said Solas. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake - and it seems I was correct."

"Meaning it could also close the Breach itself," said Cassandra, waving her hand to dismiss the soldiers who had accompanied Solas and Varric.

"Possibly," said Solas. He shifted his gaze to the Dalish woman and saw confusion replacing the fear in her eyes. _Good. I can work with that._ "It seems you hold the key to our salvation."

"Good to know! Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever." Varric's voice cut through the sounds of distant battle. He strode toward the others, grinning, with his crossbow slung over his shoulder. "Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong."

The Dalish woman looked from Varric to Solas and back again. "Are you with the Chantry, or...?"

The sudden, unbidden image of Varric as a Chantry sister was so absurd that Solas could not keep from laughing. "Was that a serious question?" He regretted it when he saw how the Dalish woman looked mildly stung by his reaction. _I must be kinder. She must think well of me, if at all possible._ Of course he could not leave her even if she came to despise him, but it would make everything easier if he could somehow earn her trust.

Varric and Cassandra began to bicker with each other, but Solas paid their conversation no mind until he heard the Dalish woman speak again. "It's good to meet you, Varric."

"You may reconsider that stance, in time," said Solas, in what he hoped was a teasing tone.

"Aww," said Varric. "I'm sure we'll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles."

"Absolutely not," said Cassandra. "Your help is appreciated, Varric, but-"

Varric interrupted her. "Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me." Cassandra grunted in disgust.

Solas was much more interested in the Dalish woman, who was watching in silence, than in whatever squabble Varric and Cassandra seemed intent on having. "My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," he said to her.

"Lavellan," she said, regarding him warily. It was a clan name, not a given name, but he supposed he could not fault her for her reticence. _We have only just met. Perhaps she will open up to me, given time._

"I am pleased to see you still live," he said.

"He means, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,'" said Varric.

That got Lavellan's attention. "You seem to know a great deal about it all," she said to Solas, appreciatively.

The compliment sounded genuine, and touched him more than he wanted to let on. _She doesn't even know me._ "My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin."

"And what will you do once this is over?" Lavellan asked.

Her thoughtfulness and curiosity gave him more hope than he had felt in some time. He had not anticipated finding open-mindedness from a Dalish warrior, yet here she was all the same. "One hopes those in power will remember who helped and who did not. Cassandra, you should know: The magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power." The lie came easily and comfortably to his lips, its weight a reminder that even if Lavellan were not like the other Dalish he had met, there were many things he could never tell her if he wanted to succeed.

There were more demons ahead, more soldiers to save, more rifts to close. After a brief discussion with Cassandra, Lavellan charged ahead into the fray. He did not hesitate to join her, even though he could scarcely believe it himself: the Dread Wolf, who had despised the Dalish and everything they stood for, allowing one of those very same fools who so feared and reviled him to lead him as she pleased. He lifted up his staff and followed her, as he knew he would have to do until the moment came when he could do it no longer, into the world that she was even now changing, the future that only she could create.


	30. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If you'd like, here's a musical interlude before you read the final chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcdOLKx2XG8)

The Inquisition raised its banner above Griffon Wing Keep as the hot, bright sun was setting over the endless desert of the Western Approach. As soon as word of the defeat of Macrinus and his Venatori reached the camps, dozens of soldiers and mages and scouts rushed in to lay claim to the keep, desperate for its relative comfort and safety. Solas, who was leaning against a dark stone wall at the highest point of the fortress and gazing at the sky as violet shadows lengthened across the orange sands, didn't blame them. These mortals were trapped in an imperfect physical realm, while he was fortunate that he could retreat to the Fade when the rigors of the waking world became too great to bear. _And I am even more fortunate to have found a true ally on this side of the Veil,_ he thought with a glance at the Inquisitor.

With the keep now captured, Inquisitor Lavellan was oblivious to her surroundings as she fiddled with an astrarium near the flagpole. He loved to watch her like this, when she became so focused on a task that everything else around her seemed as frozen as the ancient battle hidden within the Still Ruins. And when she inevitably succeeded, when she turned her rapt attention toward him... _She is much more than just an ally_. Eight months had passed since he had first seen her, unconscious and tormented on a crude bed in Haven. Eight months had passed since he had crafted the Anchor she now wielded to shape the course of the future. In that time she had become the face and the strong arm of the newly formed Inquisition, had tamed the nest of vipers that was the Winter Palace with little more than a few carefully chosen words, had walked bodily into the Fade and lived to tell the tale. And she had captured his heart. He had never expected to think of her as anything but a necessary tool, let alone to love her as he did. It was just another one of the many ways in which she had surprised him.

The gears within the astrarium slotted into place with a loud click. "Got it," said Lavellan triumphantly. A beam of light lanced out from the front of the artifact, directed toward the other side of the gorge beside which Griffon Wing Keep squatted. "That's not far. What do you say we have a look?"

"Right now?" Getting here had been a long slog through bandits and darkspawn and wild beasts, and he had expected she would want nothing more than to rest now that the Inquisition had taken the keep.

"Why not? These things are easier to solve in the dark, when the stars are brighter. Besides, I need to get out of this fortress for a while. Everything around me smells like dead Venatori."

Solas chuckled. "I'll inform the others." Nearby, Cassandra was giving orders to the newly arrived soldiers like the born leader she was, while Varric was helping one particularly zealous merchant to set up his stall in an unused corner of the keep.

"No need," said Lavellan, and slipped her hand into his. "I was thinking this might be an excursion for just the two of us. Provided you don't mind?"

"I'd like that," he said, and she smiled.

They walked together down the long winding staircase to the main gate. All around them the soldiers were cleaning up the evidence of battle, carting away the bodies of the Venatori to be burned, hauling in provisions, making the fortress the Inquisition's own. In the courtyard on the lowest level, familiar magic brushed against his awareness. "There's an-"

"An elven artifact nearby, yes," she said. "Don't worry, I see it." Now Solas saw it too, tucked away in a corner near the entrance. She crossed to it and ran her hand along its rune-marked surface. A nimbus of green energy flared to life around it, and he smiled as he felt the Veil solidify. But his momentary pleasure was tempered by the knowledge that this, too, was temporary. When the time came for him to tear down his own creation, would he sense her fingerprints upon it in the places where she had mended it at his urging?

Lavellan led him out the gates and into the darkening desert, following the sinuous line of the canyon's rim. They were both fully armed and armored, but it was a perfunctory precaution at best. The Inquisitor's party had already cleared out the territory around Griffon Wing Keep before they began their siege, not wanting to be flanked while they dealt with the fortress. Tonight, if Lavellan and Solas spotted a pack of varghests or quillbacks, or a band of brigands lying in ambush, they simply gave their would-be enemies a wide berth. Someone else could deal with such minor threats in the morning.

She took his hand again as they crossed the alarmingly rickety wooden walkways the Inquisition had constructed over the bubbling, reeking sulphur pits at Death Drink Springs. He could feel her letting her guard down as they put more distance between themselves and the keep. She was setting aside the mantle of Inquisitor and allowing herself to be only Lavellan, a Dalish warrior far from home, a woman in love. In her manner there was relief at being freed from the scrutiny of others, however temporarily - but there was sadness too, a deep melancholy she had been concealing. _Something troubles her,_ he thought, but he did not pry. She would speak of it to him in her own time, if she wanted to.

They climbed more stairs up the side of the cliffs, the timbers creaking and shuddering under their combined weight. The astrarium stood on a platform at the rim of the gorge, in the shadow of some ruined Tevinter prison. Far above them, the distant white pinpricks of the stars were poking through the deep purple velvet of the sky. Lavellan hopped up onto the astrarium's pedestal and motioned for Solas to join her. He looked over her shoulder as her strong hands deftly adjusted the controls, tracing a constellation he already knew too well. _Fenrir. Of course it is._

After a few minutes of tinkering, unseen gears clicked and spun again, and the astrarium produced another beam of light. This one lanced out southward to a rocky outcropping near one of the Inquisition's camps. Lavellan frowned, teased a crude map and a grease pencil from somewhere inside her bright red dragon leather coat, and marked the location. "Not tonight, I think," she said, more to herself than to him as she folded the map and tucked it away once more. "I simply cannot be arsed."

Solas smiled. "Shall we return to the keep, then?"

"Not yet," she said. "Let's rest here for a while." She pulled him down to sit beside her. He put his arm around her and she leaned into his chest, gazing up at the same stars she had just catalogued and named. The only light came from the half-moon above and the faint glow of the astrarium, but it was enough to softly illuminate the angular features of her pensive face. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, where her _vallaslin_ began, and marveled at how he had come to find beauty in those cruel markings. Someday he would tell her what they really were, would give her the chance to erase them if she wished. But not tonight.

In the darkness, with the cool night air caressing his skin and the warm weight of her body resting against his, Solas was as much at peace as he ever could be. But the continued tension in Lavellan's muscles told him she was far from calm. "Is something wrong, _ma vhenan_?"

She was still looking out at the horizon instead of at him. "We kill a lot of people, you know."

"I know," he said. He recalled a conversation he had once had with the Iron Bull - _We have fought living men, with loves and families, and all that they might have been is gone_ \- and wondered if her thoughts on the matter were similar to his own. "But you were a warrior even before you were the Inquisitor. Battle comes with the territory."

"Not like this. Clan Lavellan rarely skirmished with its neighbors. Before I was sent to the Conclave, I hadn't ever really gone to war."

"I see. All the same, it is not as if you make a habit of slaying the innocent. The red templars and the Venatori chose their path."

"Maybe. But how am I supposed to feel, Solas? Would you rather I slaughtered them without remorse? Or that I cared nothing at all for the people I'm supposed to be saving?"

"Of course not. If you didn't care, you would not be you. And if you were not yourself, I would not love you as I do. That would be the worst fate of all."

"Always the sweet talker," she murmured, and guided his mouth down to meet hers in a brief but heartfelt kiss. He shivered as her left hand pressed against his jawline and he felt the faint tingle of the Anchor's quiescent energy crackling against his skin. She did not know she touched him with his own power. It bothered him to know that he might never have spared her a second thought had she not borne his mark, that he might never have seen her strength or her compassion or the fire of her spirit.

They fell into a long, companionable shared silence, watching the night sky, and Solas thought that was the end of it. But when Lavellan spoke again, her voice was no less tight or troubled. "Does anybody ever really change?"

"What do you mean?"

"The humans still think I'm the Herald of Andraste, no matter how many times I've tried to tell them differently. It's like none of them are even willing to entertain the possibility they might be wrong. And the templars, the Venatori - you said they chose their path, as if they can't choose another once they've begun to follow Corypheus. As if they settle on their philosophy, then never question it again. Is that really how people are? If so, how can I ever make things better when no one wants to think about how anything could improve?" She sighed. "Maybe we all only get a few chances to change ourselves, and once they're gone we're out of luck. Maybe some choices, you make them and that's it. They transform you, and you can't take them back."

Solas felt as if he were teetering at the edge of a bottomless cavern. "It is not necessarily true that people cannot change. Granted, not everybody wants to. Given time, though, change is possible for those who believe in its importance. I have seen it happen many times before."

"Where? In the Fade? You told me spirits don't change their nature."

"Wisdom did," he said without thinking.

"That...isn't something to aspire to," she said gently, frowning in confusion.

"You misunderstand, _ma sa'lath_." Of course she would think first of what had happened with the mages in the Exalted Plains. She had never met Wisdom in any other context. They had not spoken of that terrible day since his temporary departure from the Inquisition and his ultimate return to Skyhold, to her - since he had set aside his reason and kissed her and confessed his love to her, knowing all the while he would betray her in the end. He sensed himself preparing for another impetuous and ill-considered admission, and he chose not to stop it. "When I first met Wisdom, it was different. The spirit was...apart from its own nature. A demon, some would call it. It caused great harm to many before I persuaded it to return to itself."

"You mean, you did something like I did when I destroyed those bindings?"

"A little, yes - but rather more complex. The mages you saw had forced Wisdom to go against its nature. Before, when it called itself Desiderata, it freely chose its own corruption, at least in part."

"And all by yourself, you talked it back into being Wisdom?"

"You think very highly of my abilities, _ma vhenan._ I had substantial help. In fact, the woman I was traveling with did much of the work, once I led her into the Fade."

"I learn new things about you every day," said Lavellan in a teasing tone. "Today I've learned you can defeat demons with your words alone, all while wandering around the Fade with some other woman you've never told me about."

"What Zula and I shared was not like that," Solas said sharply. He felt a twinge of guilt when he saw how Lavellan recoiled.

"It was a joke," she said softly. "Evidently not a very good one. _Ir abelas._ "

"Don't apologize."

She did not resist when he kissed her once more, but after a few more hushed moments she spoke again. "What I meant to say was - before, you told me your only friends were spirits. Why didn't you mention you knew another mortal? I'd love to meet her." The quaver in her voice told him she already suspected the reason she and Zula would never meet.

"She died," he said. "When the Breach opened."

" _Ar eman ebelas._ "

" _Ar tas'ebelas._ "

There was another pause, and then Lavellan said, "The Dalish have a saying. _Ahn re val'lasem juros._ "

"A shame Wisdom isn't here to remember her, then."

"I agree. But _you_ remember her, Solas. As long as you do, she won't ever be lost completely. So tell me about her. If you want. And then I'll remember something about her, too."

He took a deep breath. "She was very smart," he said. "A natural leader. Determined. She was born in Kirkwall, but she lived among the Dalish for much of her life. She believed in their potential, and in their _Vir Tanadahl_ , more resolutely than anyone I have ever known."

"I'm surprised you'd consider that a good thing," said Lavellan, sounding not at all displeased.

"So many people - not only the Dalish - allow those around them to determine what they will value. It is as you said - they comfort themselves with the lie that the world has always been this way, and close their mind to any dream of transformation. Even if I did not agree with all of Zula's conclusions, she weighed the evidence available to her and chose her own path. No one forced her to believe as she did. And when her perspective changed, she changed herself as well. She saw things as they were, not as she wished them to be." _And in the end, she saved me because of it._

"I want to do the same."

"You already have," Solas said. He had to remind himself she was responding only to the words he had actually spoken aloud, not the secret and unexpressed thought that had followed them. "The Inquisitor might just as easily have been some small-minded demagogue claiming to be the savior of all Thedas. But you seek truth, not power. You have remained open-minded, unblinkered by harmful ideology. _That_ will make the things you do matter in the end, no matter how short-sighted fools may resist you."

As he talked he felt tension leaving her body, and she sank against him as if he had said exactly what she needed to hear. Perhaps he had. " _Ma serannas,_ " she said.

"Don't mention it."

Lavellan fell silent then, her breathing evening out and her head slumping more heavily upon his shoulder as she dozed lightly against him. They could not stay like this forever. Eventually he would have to wake her and follow her back to the keep, but for the moment he was reluctant to disturb the rare moment of peace she had found.

He looked down at his hand where it rested on her upper arm. Even after all this time it still seemed alien to him, its movements foreign, its shape unfamiliar. It was little wonder to him that he often shied from physical intimacy with Lavellan on this side of the Veil. He had always preferred to meet her in the Fade, without some stranger's flesh to mediate his desire for her. He knew his reticence troubled her at times, and knew just as well that he should have explained himself to her long ago. But if he allowed himself to admit to the theft of his current body, who could say how many other confessions would inevitably spill out along with it?

_I lived for thousands of years before I met you. I walked the boulevards of Arlathan, and I watched its towers burn._

_I am Fen'Harel, He Who Hunts Alone, the Dread Wolf of legend, feared and reviled by your people. You have named me your god of betrayal, and perhaps rightly so. I am no god, but you are right to fear me, in the end._

_It is true - I locked your pantheon away, but they were never the benevolent Creators you worship. All that the Dalish have taught you is a lie._

_The orb Corypheus wields is mine. I gave it to him freely and bade him unlock it for me. I manipulated him into doing my will, as I am even now manipulating the Inquisition - and you. The Breach is his doing, but it is my fault. The Anchor on your hand is my fault. It will likely kill you someday, and that, too, will be my fault._

_I built the Veil. I robbed my People of their immortality. I destroyed the whole of reality without knowing what I had done. And soon, when I succeed, I will destroy it all again, knowing it will cost you everything you have ever held dear._

_And in spite of it all, I have come to love you with my whole heart._

He turned his gaze away from her with a harsh jerk of his neck and looked out into the hushed and starry night. The cold air against his bare face reminded him of the chill in the Frostback Mountains, how he had once believed he would never be free of it. A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. He took a deep breath, inhaled the mingled scents of dust, of sand, of dragon spoor, of blood and smoke from Griffon Wing Keep, of sulphur from the canyons below, of Inquisitor Lavellan's hair just beneath his nose. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, as if his eyelids alone could keep out the relentless pressure of the dream that encompassed him. "It's not real," he said softly to himself. "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real…" He repeated the words until they lost all meaning, blurring together into a slurred collection of nonsensical syllables. And yet, when he opened his eyes again, the world stubbornly went on disagreeing.

It wasn't only Lavellan, just as it hadn't been only Zula, or only Felassan. It was all three of them, wide awake in the midst of the illusion he had created, as whole and as complete as any being he had ever known in Arlathan. The existence of one such individual might have been happenstance. Two might be coincidence. But if there were three of them, all of them utterly self-aware and yet utterly convinced of the reality of the false world they inhabited, how many other dreamers here might be just as lucid as they were?

He forcibly suppressed his rising panic. He took another deep breath, felt the crisp, steady night wind against the skin he still struggled to think of as his own, and found himself remembering the Orlesian students of philosophy and their drunken debate about the paradox of the grandfather's axe. The conclusions he drew from that story now were different than the ones he had reached when he had stood above his own corpse and chosen a new way. He was not only his flesh, and had never been. What made him the same man, even after the last ashes of Fen'Harel's body had been scattered across the earth, had always been his purpose. He could not allow anyone, no matter how wise or how bright, to dissuade him from the single driving goal that had drawn him out of _uthenera_ and into the center of the great lie he had unwittingly created. So he dared not change, dared not waver from the task he had set for himself long ago in Arlathan. As long as he remembered his duty to the People, he would always be none other than himself.

To do otherwise would be to admit that he had always been wrong.

He watched the dark silent desert and tried yet again and with all his might to convince himself that nothing had changed, that he was the same man he had always been. The branch of Mythal's tree upon which he had found himself was long and straight, never bending, never forking. He had been there from the moment it had first budded, and he knew it led to only one destination. It was much too late for him to abandon it now. Already he was reaching the end of his path, drawing inexorably closer toward that moment of ultimate revelation when the heavy-laden bough would break and send everyone and everything tumbling into an endless void not even the Evanuris could chart. It was what he wanted. After all, it was what he had come here to do in the first place.

The ground was hard and cold beneath him. The Inquisitor was warm and pliant in his arms. Solas closed his eyes once more, struggling to shut out the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of the inescapably real life that surrounded him, and wished for neither the first nor the last time that he had not forgotten how to go back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Elvhen phrases, inspired by the conlang work of [FenxShiral](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral):  
>   
> Ar eman ebelas. = I mourn your loss.  
> Ar tas'ebelas. = I mourn it as well.  
> Ahn re val'lasem juros. = What is remembered, lives.
> 
> More than a year after I first started researching and outlining _A Slow Awakening_ , it's hard to believe that I've finally finished the story. Thanks to all of you who read this novel; it's the first one I've ever completed and I'm so glad I saw it through to the end. I am especially, endlessly grateful to the readers who have been regularly commenting on these chapters as they were posted and offering me encouragement, in particular ConstantlyComic, Dogwood, and Violetrayofsunshine.
> 
> I'm definitely not done with Dragon Age or with Solas, so please check back on my AO3 page for more stories about him and about this particular iteration of the game world and its characters. (Plus whatever DA4 brings us in a few years' time, of course!) And thank you again for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this story and ship Solavellan, you may also like [In Sleep](http://archiveofourown.org/series/204821), my series of one-shots about Lavellan and Solas having weird shippy Fade adventures together.


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